


something magic, something tragic

by squadrickchestopher



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Attempted Kidnapping, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon-Typical Violence, Deaf Clint Barton, Drunken Kissing, Enemies to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sassy Clint Barton, Supernatural Creatures, Torture, Vampire Bucky Barnes, because Vampires, competent clint barton, creative escapes, some non-consensual biting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:41:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 55,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28487004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher
Summary: After making a fatal mistake on a mission, Clint Barton vanishes into the depths of the Midwest.What hewantsis to be left alone for a bit, to take a couple weeks of peace and quiet and get his mind straight.Instead, he finds himself caught up in a nationwide game of cat-and-mouse with a brooding, metal-armed vampire.Natasha’s right. He’s got the worst fucking luck in the world.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 226
Kudos: 346
Collections: Charity Hawktion 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flawedamythyst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/gifts).



> Charity Hawktion 2020 for flawedamythest, who asked for a competent Clint and a supernatural flavored Winterhawk. I hope this is everything you wanted!

Clint’s on his third beer of the night when the guy who’s been watching him for the last hour _finally_ makes a move.

_About time_ , Clint thinks, using the reflective wall behind the bar to watch him cross the room. He’d clocked the guy within about two seconds of walking in the damn place. Everything about him—from the unfriendly set of his face down to the uncomfortable way he was sitting alone in the booth—just absolutely screamed _I do not belong here._

Now, Clint’s just trying to decide if he’s a SHIELD agent, NSA, or some other alphabet soup agency. SHIELD seems unlikely—Clint had made it pretty clear to both Fury and Hill that he had no interest in being followed right now. Not that he would put it past them to have him tailed, but he’d hope they’d at least put more fucking effort into it.

CIA or NSA are the more likely possibilities, given the reason Clint’s in here in the first place, but he’s pretty sure they have higher hygiene standards for their agents. Not that the guy’s a slob or anything, but most agents Clint knows are a little more by the book—clean-shaven, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed little bastards. This guy’s got a few days worth of stubble on him, and his hair doesn’t look like it’s met shampoo in the last week or two.

Then again, there’s something in the way he’s walking that makes Clint think maybe he’s not either agency at all. It’s a very predatory gait, the kind that just exudes danger with every step. Clint’s not worried for his safety right now—there’s too many people in here, too many witnesses or potential bodies to deal with—but he still lets his right hand casually drift down towards his hip.

The guy doesn’t miss the motion. It’s a short thing—eyes flicking down, then back up—but Clint sees it. He bites back a grin and kicks the stool next to him. _Some degree of competency, then._

That’s good. Clint _likes_ competency.

The guy’s good-looking, dressed in a white t-shirt, leather jacket, and dark jeans. He’s the dictionary definition of tall, dark, and handsome, with blue-grey eyes Clint could see from across the damn bar. They’re even better up close, really. Clint’s always been a sucker for a pair of pretty eyes.

He raises his beer to his lips. “Gonna sit, or are you gonna keep staring at me?”

The guy pauses for a moment, looking a little taken aback, then eases himself into the stool next to Clint. He orders a beer from the bartender—same kind Clint’s drinking—and holds it tightly in a gloved hand.

“You can relax,” Clint says. “I’m not gonna hurt you or anything.”

The guy’s face doesn’t change. His shoulders loosen slightly, but it’s more of a forced nonchalance thing than anything else. He shifts a little on the stool, then says, “Having a nice night?”

“Yeah, small talk? It’s not my thing.” Clint sets his beer down. “Who sent you?”

A look of alarm fills those blue eyes. It’s gone in an instant, traded for cool calmness, quick enough that Clint almost doubts whether or not he saw it. The guy sips his own beer and says, “What makes you say that?”

Clint snorts. “Come on, man. Playing dumb’s not my thing either. You SHIELD? CIA? NSA? Just tell me.”

“I don’t know what that means,” the guy says. “I’m just here to have a drink.”

“Uh-huh,” Clint says. “And that’s why you’ve been watching-not-watching me for the last hour.” He shakes his head. “I’m not stupid. I clocked you the second I walked in here. Your ‘blending in’ skills need a little work.”

The guy raises an eyebrow. “That so?”

Clint sighs. “Look, I’ve had a long day and I’m really not interested in games. Tell whoever sent you that I’m fine, I’ll come back when I’m ready, and if they try to drag me in earlier, we’re gonna have a repeat of Chicago.” He takes another drink, then slams the bottle on the counter, reaching up to adjust a hearing aid. “You don’t want that, trust me.”

That gets him a quiet laugh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but whatever it is, that’s not what I’m here for.”

“Then what are you here for?”

The guy looks at him, dragging his gaze up and down Clint’s body for _just_ a moment too long. “Like I said. I’m just having a drink.”

The air between them seems to change, flickering with a tension that wasn’t there a second ago. Clint raises his eyebrows, then lifts his beer in a slight salute. “Well, alright then.”

Clint’s not an idiot. Well—he _is_ , but not about stuff like this. He knows there’s more to the story; he can practically taste the danger radiating off this guy. But Clint got into spy work because he likes danger. He _thrives_ on it. There’s no better feeling than that first hint of adrenaline trickling into his veins, that heightened sense of awareness that comes with every heartbeat.

“Russ Meyer,” he says, offering a hand.

The guy shakes it, a slight smirk spreading across his face. “Don Newcombe.”

Okay, this is _definitely_ something more. Clint’s been working his way down the 1955 Brooklyn Dodgers pitchers for the past few weeks, but this is the first time he’s ever run into another ‘team member,’ so to speak. Either it’s a freaky coincidence, or he’s lying. Judging by the smirk, Clint suspects it’s the second one.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, then thumbs towards the door. “You want to get out of here?” Don looks a little startled, and Clint hides a smile. “Or not,” he adds easily. “If you need some romance or whatever first.”

Don recovers smoothly. “I thought small talk wasn’t your thing?”

“Just means I don’t like it. Doesn’t mean I can’t do it.” Clint sips his beer. “So where you from?”

“Originally or recently?”

“Recently. Origin stories bore me.”

“San Diego, then.”

Clint nods. “Been there. Nice place. What brings you all the way out to St. Louis?”

“I’m a travel writer. Working on a piece about Midwest cities.”

As far as cover IDs go, it’s not a bad one. Plausible reason for constant traveling, occasionally comes with perks like upgraded hotel rooms. Good excuse to drop to anyone who wants you to stick around longer. _Oh, sorry, it’s a temporary thing. I’m leaving in a week._ It’s an old favorite of Clint’s.

“How about you?” Don asks. 

“Oh, I’m recently from Miami,” Clint says, grinning a little. He’s technically already outed himself with the whole _who sent you_ bit, but he’s always happy to play the game. “I’m here for...business.”

“What kind of business?”

“Acquisitions and mergers.” He chuckles. “Corporate babysitting, really. You ever try to get a bunch of rich, old guys to sit down and come to an agreement on something? It’s a special kind of hell.”

“I can imagine,” Don says dryly. “Sounds stressful.”

“Sure is.” Clint takes a drink, then adds, “Could use an opportunity to blow off some steam.”

Don snorts. “Subtle.”

“I told you, I hate small talk.”

“Fair enough.” Don finishes his beer, then gets up. “Coming?”

“Hope so,” Clint says, then flashes him a filthy wink. “As many times as I can manage, preferably.”

Don’s lips quirk up in a little smile. It changes his whole face, makes him just a bit softer around the edges for a second. And while Clint is all for his dark and broody look, there’s something about that smile that instantly makes him want to see more.

“Subtle,” Don says again, and jerks his head towards the door. “Let’s go, then.”

Clint shrugs his jacket on and follows Don outside. It’s cold out here, a chillier spring night, and he shivers. “Where are you staying?”

“Down the street,” Don says, pointing towards a high-rise hotel. “You?”

Clint thinks of the beat-up van he’d stolen two days ago, and the uncomfortable nest of blankets in the backseat. He’s got money, but not a lot, and the van’s as good a spot as any to crash. Certainly better than the park bench he’d done a few nights before that.

However, it’s not a place he wants to bring a one-night stand back to, so he just shakes his head and says, “Doesn’t matter, yours is nicer.” He glances sideways, sees the way Don is looking at him, and smirks a little. “Unless we’re not going to make it that far?”

“Probably not,” Don says, and pulls him off the sidewalk.

They make it a few fumbling steps into a parking garage, just enough to be out of sight, and then Don pins him against the wall. He claims Clint’s mouth in a rough kiss, biting down on his lip and slipping his tongue in when Clint gasps against him. Clint grabs his jacket, yanks him in closer, hitching one leg around his waist.

“Security cameras,” he manages as Don moves to his jawline, leaving a trail of bruising kisses along the way.

“Blind spot,” Don says, mouth tracing close to his ear in a way that should _not_ be sexy, but totally is. He points to the corner without looking. “Doesn’t track far enough to the right.” He drops that hand down to Clint’s ass, then points opposite with his other one. “That one’s on the entrance only.”

_Bingo_. “Pretty smart—” his breath hitches as Don dips his head, scraping his teeth over Clint’s thudding pulse “—for a travel writer.”

“Not a travel writer,” Don admits, threading his right hand into Clint’s hair.

“I figured,” Clint says. Don pulls slightly, tilting his head to the side and exposing his neck. It sends a thrill of excitement through Clint, just barely edged with trepidation. “So which one are you? FBI?”

Don lets out a low laugh. “No.”

“CIA?”

“No.” He leans down again, pressing his mouth back over Clint’s pulse.

_Danger, danger, dange_ r, that little voice in the back of his head sings, and Clint stills underneath him, hands loosening their grip and flattening against Don’s chest. “Well, you’re sure as hell not SHIELD.”

Don pauses for a moment, then says, “No.”

“So what—”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish. Don’s grip tightens, and he pulls hard, yanking Clint’s head painfully to the side. At the same time, his other arm comes up, pressing Clint into the wall with an immovable pressure.

There’s a sharp pain in his neck, sharp enough to make him cry out. He shoves at Don’s chest, but he doesn’t have the leverage to move. He can’t knee him, can’t twist out of his grip, can’t do _a single goddamn thing_ except curse loudly and squirm like a pinned bug.

“Get off—” he grunts, struggling anyway, because he’s never met a no-win situation he hasn’t tried to punch his way out of.

After a moment, Don finally lets go, stepping back and raising his hands in a single motion. “I’m sorry,” he says, eyes sympathetic. “I didn’t want to do that.”

“Do _what?_ ” Clint presses a hand to his neck, then pulls it away to look at the blood on his hand. “What the fuck? What’s with the biting, asshole? You a fucking vampire or something?”

“Yes,” Don says, looking deadly serious.

Clint stares at him, then back at the blood on his hand. “Oh,” he manages after a moment. “Uh. That sucks.”

_This is not the time for vampire puns_ , some more rational part of his brain screams at him.

Don nods once and wipes blood from his mouth. Clint’s blood. From his neck. The neck now sporting a vampire bite. An irreversible vampire bite.

Shit.

“You’ll need to come with me,” Don says.

“Fuck that noise,” Clint says, putting his hand back to his neck. He doesn’t bother going for his gun; he doesn’t have any blessed bullets with him. Stupid, really, but vampires are rare enough that he wasn’t expecting to run into one. Certainly wasn’t expecting to be pinned against the wall and _bitten_. Christ, Natasha’s right. He’s got the worst fucking luck in the _world_.

“You don’t have a choice,” Don says, and Clint refocuses on him.

“Oh, yes I do.” He doesn’t, but that’s beside the point. “I know how this vampire shit works, one of my best friends is a bloodsucker. I’m not going any damn place with you.” His vision blurs, and he blinks hard, trying to clear it.

“You _don’t_ have a choice,” Don says again, sounding almost...regretful about it. He holds up an empty syringe in his other hand, and when the _fuck_ did he have time to use that? “I’m sorry.”

“Aw, drugs, no,” Clint mutters. That would explain the wooziness, then. He’d initially chalked it up to the bite. “Are you sure you should be mixing drugs and vampire juice? Because that doesn’t seem real smart to me.”

Or at least, that’s what he tries to say. What comes out is a vague slur of words, and Clint stumbles, feeling the ground shift under his feet. He slides down the wall to the garage floor, hand still pressed to his neck.

“Fuck,” he manages. “Just...fuck.”

“Sorry,” Don murmurs and reaches down for him. “This will not be pleasant for you.”

_Yeah_ , Clint thinks as his vision blurs. _Story of my fucking life._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://clintscoffeepot.tumblr.com/). Thank you!
> 
> Updates Sundays!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hydra.”
> 
> The word is like a sucker punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of Clint in a single blow. “Oh,” he manages, voice low. “That...okay. Hydra. Okay. Fuck. _Fuck._ ”
> 
> “They told me to pick you up,” Barnes says. “They think you will make a good asset.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the updated tags

Waking up is hell no matter where it happens, but it’s worse when he’s tied to a chair, pissed off, and nursing a headache. It’s even more worse when he can’t really do shit about any of that.

He’s in some kind of motel room—the crappy kind, definitely not the five-star one he’d been planning on spending the night in. The walls are dirty, and the duvet is stained, and the carpet is curling and fraying at the edges where it meets the wall. It’s disgusting, really, and just adds to the annoyance factor. If he’s supposed to be turning into a vampire, couldn’t it at least have happened some place nice?

Clint twists a bit to look around, wincing as his mind takes a moment to catch up with his eyes. Still drugged, then. Or else they haven’t worn off yet. Fucking hate drugs. He still has his hearing aids in, at least. That’s good. 

“You’re awake,” someone says, and Clint nearly jumps out of his skin. Don is sitting in shadows in the corner of the room like some B-movie villain. He reaches out and clicks on a lamp. “How are you feeling?”

“Pissed off, mostly,” Clint says. His mouth is dry. “And my head fucking hurts. Got any water?”

Don gets up and goes into the bathroom, emerging with a plastic cup. He tips it into Clint’s mouth, watching carefully as he swallows. “I’m sorry.”

“You said that.” Clint takes another drink, then pulls his head away. “Funny story, though—I just don’t believe you.” He licks his lips. “Trust issues, you know.”

Don’s mouth twitches, like he wants to smile. “Understandable.” He sets the cup down, then studies Clint in an intense manner. “The change will start soon.”

“Awesome.” Clint twists against the ropes tying his wrists behind the chair. “Looking forward to it. I’ve heard great things.” He twists again. “What’s your name?”

“I gave you a name.”

“Yeah, exactly. A name. Not your name. What is it?” He pauses in his escape attempts and tries for a charming, lazy kind of smile. “If you’re gonna be my fucking vampire daddy or whatever, shouldn’t I at least know who you are?”

Don is quiet for a long moment. He looks...sad, almost. Like he’s lost something. It’s a very specific type of grief, one that Clint is far too familiar with, and he has to look away after a moment.

“Barnes,” he eventually says, voice soft. 

“Barnes,” Clint repeats. “That first or last?”

“That’s all the handlers say..” He frowns. “I don’t think I’m supposed to hear that, but they do.”

“And the handlers are...?”

“Hydra.”

The word is like a sucker punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of Clint in a single blow. “Oh,” he manages, voice low. “That...okay. Hydra. Okay. Fuck. Fuck.”

“They told me to pick you up,” Barnes says. “They think you will make a good asset.”

Clint lets out a low laugh. “Do they? That’s cute.” He turns his wrists again, keeping his face neutral as he slowly works himself loose. “Well, I won’t. So if that’s the plan, you should just let me go.”

“I can’t,” Barnes says. “I...I wish I could.” 

“Wishes aren’t gonna do shit.” Clint says. “What did you do with my gun?”

“On the nightstand.” Barnes sits back down in the chair and rubs his eyes. He looks tired. Clint knows that vampires don’t need as much sleep as humans do, but this guy looks like he’s been running for days on end without rest. There are dark circles under his eyes, starkly contrasted to his pale skin, and even the way he’s watching Clint has an exhausted edge to it.

“You look like shit,” Clint informs him. “Do you need a blood juice box or something?”

“No.” Barnes scowls at him. “You should not talk so much. You’ll need to conserve your strength.”

“Fuck off,” Clint says, turning his hands a little more. His legs are free, so really all he needs to do is get the rope off his wrists and then get to the gun. Bullets won’t kill Barnes, but they’ll hopefully slow him down enough for Clint to bust out the window or something.

Barnes sighs. “Barton—”

“Was there a part of ‘fuck off’ you need me to repeat?” Clint finally works one wrist free, keeping the rope tangled up in his fingers so the loose ends don’t give him away. “Because I can, if you need me to. Fuck. Off. I’m tired, and I’m pissed off, and I’m not really in the mood for this. Just leave me alone.”

“I can’t,” Barnes says, a hint of frustration to his voice. “You need me. You’ll need more blood during the change.”

Clint freezes. “I’m sorry, did you say more blood?”

“Yes. I gave you some while you were unconscious.”

He doesn’t want to ask, but he has to. “Uh...how much blood did you give me? Also...how?”

“Just a little bit,” Barnes says. “In your mouth, when I put you in the chair. Enough to start the change.”

Clint fights the urge to throw up. Probably wouldn’t do any good now. “I thought the bite started the change.”

“No, the bite made you unconscious.”

“But you drugged me—”

Barnes sighs. “The drug is just a catalyst. Hydra created it to help speed up the changing process. The bite just makes you more pliable, depending on how much venom I use. Ingesting my blood is what actually begins the change.”

“Oh god,” Clint says, thoroughly horrified. “That’s...that’s disgusting.”

Barnes looks almost offended at this, but he doesn’t say anything. Just steps over and tilts Clint’s head back. “Let me see your eyes.”

Clint wrenches his head away. “Fuck off,” he snaps. “Don’t touch me.”

This is ignored, of course. Barnes holds his head in an iron grip and pries open one of his eyelids. “Still the same,” he says. “You might need more catalyst.”

“Buddy, if you come near me with a goddamn needle again, it’s going to end up in your eye.”

Barnes rummages around in a black backpack on the bed. “You’re welcome to try,” he says, pulling out a little case. “I won’t give you a lot. Too much of this can be...painful when you change. I’ve seen it.” He unzips the case, revealing a roll of three syringes. One is empty.

“Don’t you dare,” Clint warns him.

Barnes ignores that too, and pulls out one of the syringes. Clint grits his teeth and gets ready. He’s not entirely sure what’s going to happen, but he knows it’s going to happen fast.

“Hold still,” Barnes says, reaching for his arm. “You don’t want me to miss.”

“Uh-huh,” Clint says, and slams both feet into his stomach, kicking out as hard as he can. Barnes stumbles backwards and crashes into the TV, knocking it over in a shower of sparks. Clint immediately jumps to his feet, grabs the chair, and hurls it at the window.

It doesn’t break. The chair bounces off the glass with a thud and lands on the floor.

“Fuck you,” Clint says to it.

Barnes starts to get up, and Clint dives for his gun. He empties a couple rounds into Barnes’s chest, knocking him back on the ground. “Fuck you too,” he says, and bolts for the hallway.

He needs a phone. He needs to call Nat. He’s been avoiding her for weeks, but now that there’s a fucking vampire after him, he needs to suck it up—stop making vampire puns, Hawkeye—and see if she has any suggestions.

He finds the utility room, then darts inside and slams the door, dragging a nearby metal shelf in front of it for good measure. It probably won’t stop Barnes, but at the very least, it’ll slow him down long enough for Clint to make contact. He pulls open the cabinet on the wall to reveal a phone server and a tangle of wires. It only takes him a moment to grab a radio and headset off a nearby utility belt, wire it in, and dial.

The quality of the call is terrible, but Natasha’s voice is still distinct when she picks up. “Hello?”

“Nat,” he hisses.

There’s a beat of silence, and then she says, “Clint?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Where are you calling from?”

“I don’t know. Some motel. I’m still in St. Louis probably; I don’t think he took me too far.”

“Who took you? What’s going on?”

There’s a thumping noise on the door. “Barton, I know you’re in there. Open the door.”

Shit, that was fast. Clint braces the shelf with one hand and thumbs the headset with his other. “There’s a vampire chasing me, Nat. Says he’s from Hydra, and they want me as an asset for something.” He winces as the shelf shakes. “He bit me, Nat. He’s gonna turn me and take me back to Hydra.”

Natasha mutters something, then says, “Only you, Barton. Only you could get into this much trouble.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” Clint snaps. “But I’ve got about two seconds before he knocks this door down, so can you please do something to help me?”

“Tell me where you are, exactly. I can’t trace this call.”

Clint looks around, trying to find something with the hotel logo. “Uh...First Western Inn?”

There’s a pause, and then she says, “East St. Louis?”

“Sounds right.”

“Okay. What’s happening?”

“Hydra vampire bit me. Try to keep up.”

“I mean right now, idiot. What’s happening now?”

“I’m in a utility closet. I hacked into the hotel phone system to call you.”

“Okay. First thing you need—”

But Clint doesn’t get to hear the end of that sentence. The door bursts open, the shelf skidding to the side. Barnes follows it like a furious storm, ripping the headset out of Clint’s hand with a rough motion. His other hand locks around Clint’s throat, shoving him into the wall. “You’re testing my patience,” he snarls, eyes flashing.

“That’s what I do best,” Clint chokes out, grabbing at Barnes’s wrist. “Let go!”

There’s a commotion at the door, and an older woman pokes her head around the door. “Excuse me,” she says in a timid voice. “But—”

“It’s under control,” Barnes tells her, and drags Clint out the door.

Clint gets a foot up and shoves hard against Barnes’s hip, breaking the grip on his throat. He hops back on one foot, gets his balance, and turns to run.

Barnes tackles him from behind, sending them both to the floor. “Stop—fighting—me—” he growls, wrestling Clint’s arms behind his back.

“I’ll get right on that,”Clint snarls back.

The woman is staring at them, eyes wide, back pressed to the wall. “Should I...should I call someone?” she asks, her voice shaking.

“Don’t worry,” Barnes says. “I’ve got it under control.” He drops a knee onto Clint’s back and pins him down, then reaches out to hand something to her. “I’m FBI, alright? I’m just escorting this guy to jail. Don’t worry about it.”

“Not true,” Clint says, craning his head enough to see the badge she’s holding. “He’s not FBI, he’s lying to you so he can haul me off to his little vampire nest and turn me into one of his minions.”

“Knock it off,” Barnes hisses at him. “Ma’am, it’s perfectly fine. I’ll take this guy and we’ll get out of your way. Sorry about this.”

The woman looks skeptical, but she hands the badge back to Barnes. He tucks it away, then hauls Clint off the ground, keeping his wrists in a firm grip. “No more fighting,” he mutters to Clint. “You’re coming with me, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”

Clint probes his split lip and winces at the flare of pain. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Barnes drags him back to the room and shoves him onto the bed. “Sit down,” he snaps. “Stay there.”

“What the hell are you mad at me for?” Clint says. “You’re the one who bit me and dragged me back here. Did you really think I was going to sit quietly and let you do this?”

“No,” Barnes admits. “But I was hoping you’d be less trouble about it.”

“Buddy, I am the definition of trouble.” Clint throws his hands up in a what-can-you-do gesture and smirks.

“I’m getting that impression,” Barnes says dryly. “But I’m serious. You need to stay close to me. The change will start soon, and you’re going to need my help. Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

“Fuck you,” Clint says, and he starts to get up. It’s useless, really. He knows it’s useless. But he can’t just sit here and let this happen. There’s got to be a way out, or a way to reverse it, or maybe—

Quick as a flash, Barnes shoves him flat onto the bed. He straddles Clint, knees on either side of his hips, and pins his arms above his head. “I said stay,” he snarls, eyes narrowed and grip bruising.

Clint pulls against his hands, but Barnes is too strong, and a little trickle of fear runs through him. “Look,” he starts, and Barnes’s expression gets colder. Clint’s survival instincts rear to life, and he clamps his mouth shut, suddenly very aware of how vulnerable he is right now.

“Better,” Barnes says, noting the way Clint’s gone still underneath him. “Now. If I let you up, are you going to behave?”

Clint nods.

“Thank you,” Barnes says. He holds Clint there a moment longer, then lets go and slides backwards off the bed. “This doesn’t have to be hard, Barton.”

“Doesn’t have to be,” Clint says, bravery—or maybe stupidity—returning in a heartbeat. “But I’m gonna make it that way anyway.”

He bolts for the door. It’s pointless, he knows, and sure enough, Barnes snags him before he gets two feet. He yanks Clint backwards, spins him, and shoves him face first into the wall. “Barton—”

“Worth a shot,” Clint grunts out, feeling blood drip from his nose.

Barnes mutters something incomprehensible and pulls Clint’s head to the side again, baring his neck.

“No, don’t—” Clint starts, and that’s all he gets out before there’s a sharp pain in his neck. “Fuck!”

“Sorry,” Barnes mutters, not really sounding sorry at all this time. “It’s just to slow you down for now, I won’t knock you out. I need you to be awake.”

It’s like being drugged, a golden little haze descending over his mind. Clint goes boneless in Barnes’s grip, letting himself be dragged backwards onto the bed again. “Don’t like you,” he mumbles.

“Yeah,” Barnes says tiredly. “I’m aware.”

Time gets loose after that, stretching out endlessly, like the long expanse of an ocean. Clint stares at the ceiling, blinking periodically, trying to make his sluggish limbs to do something. Anything.

Nat knows where he is, but he’s not sure how long it’ll take for her to scramble help. And if he’s a vampire by that point...there won’t be much she can do to help him at all.

Get up, he tells himself, but his muscles won’t respond with more than a weak twitch.

“This sucks,” he eventually mumbles, forcing his head to turn until he can see Barnes. He’s sitting in the chair again, looking out at the parking lot. At Clint’s voice, he glances over.

“I told you not to fight me,” he says, faint amusement on his face. “This is your own doing.”

“Whatever.” Clint curls his fist in the comforter. “When does this wear off?”

“Another hour, probably.” Barnes reaches out and takes his wrist, sliding his hand over Clint’s pulse. He frowns as it beats steadily against his fingers. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired. Still pissed off.”

He lets go. “This is taking a long time,” he murmurs. “You should’ve started changing by now.”

Clint’s a little confused about that as well—everything he’s ever heard or read about vampires says that the change starts relatively quick. Not instantaneous, but Barnes is right, it should’ve happened by now. He doesn’t know why it hasn’t. It’s putting him on edge.

“Maybe your catalyst is broken,” he mumbles.

“Doesn’t matter. Still should’ve happened.”

“Haven’t you done this before?”

“Many times,” he says softly, suddenly sounding pained. “But it’s never been like this.” His eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Maybe you need more blood?”

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare,” Clint says, trying to force himself back into alertness. It’s like slogging through a swamp. “I’ll fucking stab you or something—”

“Just hold still,” Barnes says, and gets up. He straddles him again, pinning Clint’s hands below his knees, and pulls a knife out of his belt. “You don’t have to make this hard—”

“Fuck you—” Clint tries to snap at him, but Barnes is too strong, forcing his mouth open in an iron grip. He raises his other hand up, barely even flinching as he bites his own wrist, then turns it so the blood drips into Clint’s mouth. 

It’s...less awful than he would’ve thought, taste-wise. Kinda like mulled wine. Vintagey. In principle, though, it’s fucking disgusting, and he has to fight the swell of nausea that rushes through him as he’s forced to swallow or choke on it. Throwing up while he’s on his back is an experience he’s had before, and not one he’s eager to repeat ever again. 

“There,” Barnes says. He raises his wrist, licks the extra blood off. Nonchalant, like he didn’t just violate Clint in the weirdest and grossest way possible. “That should help.”

“I’m gonna kill you,” Clint says. “You hear me?” 

“I wish you could,” Barnes mutters, and gets off him. “You should rest. You’ll need your strength. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard."

“Sorry ‘m so much trouble,” Clint mutters, and closes his eyes, suddenly wishing he could brush his teeth. Barnes is right, though, loathe as he is to admit it. He’s so tired. He was tired before the bar, really, and he’d decided to go out anyway. Stupid, really. Should’ve listened to himself and gone to bed. Then he’d be curled up in his nest of blankets in the van, rather than trapped in a hotel room with an increasingly confused and annoyed vampire.

He must fall asleep or something, because he wakes up to murmured conversation. Barnes is leaning on the window, one hand pressed against the glass and the other holding a phone up to his ear. The words sound odd to Clint’s ear, and it takes his tired brain a moment to place it as Russian.

“He’s not changing.” A pause, and then, “I don’t know. I didn’t do anything different.” Another pause. 

The voice on the other end is too muffled to make out, but it’s irritated. Barnes sighs and rubs his eyebrows, suddenly looking tired again.

“Yes sir,” he says. “We can be there in two days.” He snaps the phone shut and turns to look at Clint. “You’re awake?”

“Guess so,” Clint says. He feels better, actually. Better than he has in a while. Maybe all he needed was a nap.

He starts to sit up, and Barnes makes a warning noise in his throat. “Barton—”

“I’m just sitting up,” Clint says. “Don’t worry, I’m not making a break for it.” Yet. He gestures at the phone. “I like the flip phone, very retro of you. Who’d you call?”

“The handlers,” Barnes says. “They want me to bring you back to headquarters.” His mouth presses into a thin line.

“Well, you were gonna do that anyway, weren’t you?”

“Once the mission was complete.” Barnes tucks the phone back into his pocket. “You’re not—it’s not done.” He looks somewhat terrified about this, and Clint’s not entirely sure why.

“I’m a mission, huh?” Clint rubs his eyes. “That’s nice.” He looks around. “Am I allowed to go to the bathroom, or...”

Barnes looks at the bathroom, then moves to stand in front of the door leading into the hallway, crossing his arms like a bouncer at a club. “Sure,” he says. “Go ahead.”

Clint gives him a skeptical look, then gets off the bed and goes into the bathroom. “Thanks,” he says, and starts to close the door.

Barnes catches it. “No.”

“Oh come on,” Clint complains. “You’re literally right there. What do you think I’m gonna do, flush myself down the toilet?” He shoves the door, but it doesn’t budge. “Give me a little privacy, man. If you’re gonna drag me off to Hydra, the least you can do is let me piss in peace.”

For a moment, he thinks Barnes is going to say no again. But then he sighs and drops his hand. “Alright. Fine. Don’t lock it.”

“Like that would stop you,” Clint mutters. Barnes smirks a little, and Clint slams the door in his face.

He looks around for weapons, but there’s nothing in here except towels, a bar of soap, and some of the shitty little motel shampoo bottles. He’s done more with less, but none of it’s very promising against a vampire.

“If you’re not out in two minutes,” Barnes says, “I’m coming in there. There’s no weapons. Stop looking for one.”

“You don’t know what I’m doing,” Clint shoots back.

“I’m making an educated guess.”

Clint flips off the door, but quits looking for weapons and does what he’s supposed to do. Although apparently not fast enough, because two minutes later, the door opens and Barnes pokes his head in. Clint scowls at him and finishes washing the dried blood off his face. “Problem?”

“Just checking,” Barnes says, eyes skimming over him. “Not underestimating you again.”

Clint smirks. “Sure.”

Barnes rolls his eyes. “Come on,” he says, and grabs Clint’s arm. “We need to go. I have to get you to D.C.”

“No, we should stay.” Clint pulls his arm away. “I’m supposed to be turning into a bloodsucker, right? You really want to take that show on the road?”

“You’re not turning,” Barnes says. “That’s why I need to take you in. I know you called for help in that utility room, I could hear you. We’re not staying here.” He grabs Clint again and pulls him out the door, keeping an iron grip around his arm.

“Easy on the merchandise, buddy!” Clint winces. “You wanna take me to D.C. or just my arm?”

Barnes growls something and keeps dragging him down the hall. They pass by the woman from earlier, now seated behind the front desk. She looks alarmed as Barnes pulls him into the lobby. “Excuse me—”

“Under control,” Barnes snaps. “We’re leaving.”

Clint digs in his heels, yanking them to a stop. “There’s gonna be a red-haired woman coming here and looking for me,” he says to the receptionist as he wrestles with Barnes to stay in one place. “Tell her I’ll call her.” She looks confused, but Barnes pulls him forward, and he doesn’t get a chance to clarify further.

He forces Clint outside and over to a large van, then shoves him up against the side of it. Clint gasps in pain as the back of his head smacks the door hard enough to make his vision spark. “Ow,” he grits out, closing his eyes. “Manhandling. Not necessary.”

Barnes shakes his head. “Wouldn’t be if you’d quit fighting me,” he says. He pulls Clint’s wrist up to his mouth.

“Don’t!” Clint says sharply, twisting in his grasp. “Don’t, I don’t want to sleep, no—”

“Just a little,” Barnes says, and his fangs pierce Clint’s skin with a flash of pain. “Just to help.”

“Don’t need your help.” Clint pulls his wrist into his chest, wrapping his other hand around it. “I need you to let me go.”

“I can’t,” Barnes says, watching him expectantly. “I’ve already—I’ve failed previous missions, I can’t fail this one. They’ll punish me.”

“Who, Hydra?”

He nods.

“Then don’t go back to them,” Clint pleads. “Come on. You know who I am, you know the friends I’ve got. We can help you!”

For one shining moment, Barnes looks like he’s considering it. His face goes distant, like he’s trying to imagine what that would be like, and the fear in his eyes seems to melt away. Clint holds his breath and waits.

Then he shakes his head with a resigned expression. “No. I can’t. They’ll find me. They always do.”

“We can—”

“I said no, Barton. Stop asking.” He reaches for the van door and tugs on the handle.

It doesn’t open.

“Shit,” Barnes mutters, patting his jacket. “I left the keys in the room.”

Clint snorts. “Good one.”

He doesn’t feel tired at all, oddly enough. Not like the first two times Barnes bit him. He keeps waiting for the exhaustion, and the sluggishness, but it doesn’t come.

Barnes sighs. “Let’s go get them,” he says, and looks at Clint.

Clint sees the opening, bright and clear. He sags a little in Barnes’s grip, letting his eyes slide half-closed. “Tired,” he mumbles, doing his best to sound drugged-up. “Don’t wanna walk.”

Barnes sighs and mutters something under his breath. “Come on, Barton.”

Clint groans and goes limp. “Noooo.”

“Oh for—” Barnes lowers him to the concrete. “Really? Right now?”

“Told ya not to bite me,” Clint mutters, tilting his head to the side. He leans against the van. “Not my fault.”

Barnes looks up at the sky in an exasperated move so familiar that it makes Clint want to laugh. It’s the same thing he’s seen Steve do, and Natasha, and Phil, and really everyone who’s ever spent more than ten minutes with him. He should give it a name, really. It’s like his signature move.

“Fine,” Barnes sighs. He digs around in his pocket for a moment, then pulls out a pair of handcuffs. He grabs Clint’s wrist and hooks a cuff around it, then connects the other half to the side mirror. “Stay here.”

Clint lets his head thunk against the door, still acting boneless. “Kay.”

Barnes stares at him for a moment, then turns and goes back into the motel. As soon as the door closes behind him, Clint digs around in his pocket and pulls out a paper clip. He manipulates it open with his teeth, then hides it in his hand and glances over to the row of windows facing him.

Sure enough, a few seconds later, one of them lights up, and the curtain opens to reveal Barnes. He studies Clint for a moment, expression unreadable, then turns and starts tossing things around in the room. Clint holds his breath, every muscle tense as he waits for his moment.

After a minute, Barnes faces the window and holds up a keyring. Clint blinks at him, then offers a slow thumbs-up. Barnes rolls his eyes and turns around.

Time to go.

Clint jams the paper clip in the lock, pops the cuff open, and scrambles to his feet. He doesn’t bother trying to steal a car—there’s no good options, and he’ll never get one wired before Barnes comes back outside. Instead, he books it across the parking lot and ducks behind the adjacent gas station, crouching in the shadows behind the dumpster.

Barnes emerges from the motel. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees the car and the dangling handcuffs. It’s comical, really, and Clint fights back the urge to laugh as he watches Barnes spin in a frantic circle.

Barnes unlocks the handcuffs, then walks around the motel, looking more and more irritated by the moment. As soon as he disappears around the opposite side, Clint moves. He edges his way around the dumpster, keeping to the shadows on the back side of the building. There’s no cars to steal back here, either, but there is a stop light about a hundred yards from him.

A stop light where a flatbed semi-trailer is currently sitting, idling and waiting for the light to change.

Clint looks over to where Barnes disappeared, then over at the trailer. A hundred yards is nothing difficult, but the fact that it’s over open space...

The opposite light goes from green to yellow, and Clint grits his teeth. _Now or never, Hawkeye._

He goes for it. Ducks out from behind the wall and full-on sprints, praying to every god he can think of that Barnes doesn’t see him.

The light turns green before he gets there, and the trailer starts to move forward. Clint pours on the speed, managing to catch it just in time to swing onto the back. It’s louder than he was intending, but all he can do is hope the driver chalks the noise up to a pothole or something.

He clings to the straps holding down the cargo and turns, catching a glimpse of the motel parking lot before it vanishes from sight. The last thing he sees is Barnes coming around the other side of the motel, still clearly searching. Clint grins and braces himself as the truck starts accelerating down the road, wind rushing past his ears with an increasing roar.

 _Better luck next time_ , he thinks, and watches the motel fade into the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://clintscoffeepot.tumblr.com/). Thank you!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Look,” Clint starts, and then finds himself with a facefull of bricks, the feeling of them rough under his cheek. “Whoa—hey—”
> 
> “I’m getting tired of this,” Barnes hisses in his ear. “You’re coming with me. You will be quiet. You will not try to escape. If you do anything other than what I tell you, I will escalate my methods. You don’t want that.”

It only takes about an hour before he’s regretting his decision to climb onto the damn truck, mostly because his hands are numb as hell from the rushing wind. He wedges himself against the shrink-wrapped cargo as best he can and just hopes that the truck doesn’t take any sharp turns.

The sun is peeking over the horizon by the time the truck slows and pulls into another rest stop. Clint forces his frozen limbs to move, jumping off the back before it comes to a complete stop and stumbling a few steps to get his balance.

He needs to call Tasha again. That’s his first priority. Well, that and figure out where the hell he is. He’d given up trying to read the road signs after nearly falling off the truck twice, but he’s pretty sure he’s somewhere near Kansas City.

Clint goes into the gas station and smiles at the bored looking teenager behind the counter. “Hey,” he says. “You got a phone I can borrow?”

She shrugs and points across the store, where there’s an honest-to-god payphone sitting in the wall. “Got that.”

“I don’t have any money,” Clint says. “Change, anyway. Think I’ve got a—” He pats his pockets, then groans, because of course he doesn’t have his wallet. Barnes probably lifted it off him in the motel. _Fucking vampire asshole._

“Never mind,” he says to the girl, and goes back outside, trying to see if there’s anyone who’ll take pity on him and loan him a cell phone.

It takes a few minutes, but eventually he manages to convince an older man to let him borrow his. Clint thanks him profusely and dials the same number he’d used before.

The phone rings for an eternity, then Natasha’s curt voicemail echoes over the line. “Leave a message.”

“Tasha,” Clint says as soon as it beeps. “It’s Clint. Uh, I got away from him. Details irrelevant. His name is Barnes, and Hydra sent him. That’s all I know. I left all my shit in St. Louis so I don’t have a phone, but I think I’m somewhere outside Kansas City.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I’m gonna catch a ride in and stop at the usual place. Could use your help in figuring this out, if you want to meet me there. I’ll call you again when I get in.”

He hangs up and deletes the call, then hands the phone back to the guy. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, smiling at him. “Did I hear that you need a ride?”

Clint nods. “I don’t have any money,” he says preemptively. “I can’t pay you anything.”

“I’m going that way anyway.” He waves a hand. “I can drive you, if you need. Ain’t that far, and you look like you could use a hand.”

“Would be appreciated,” Clint admits. “It’s been a hell of a night.”

“That’s mine,” he says, pointing at his truck. “I’m just getting gas. Go ahead and hop in.” He offers a hand. “Call me Ben.”

“Clint,” Clint says, shaking it. “Thanks, Ben.”

It’s a beat-up old pickup, the kind that has paint peeling off, and rust spots, and a used kind of quality to it. Clint likes it immediately—cars are a good way to tell a lot about a person, and anyone who drives a truck like this is probably a kind of person he likes. Clint opens the door and gets in, carefully seating himself among the piles of paper and other things scattered on the front seat.

“Sorry,” Ben says, climbing in the other side. “I work out of here, got lotsa things scattered around.” He grabs everything and tosses it into the backseat, which is just as chaotic.

“It’s fine,” Clint assures him. “Trust me. My friend occasionally refers to me as a tornado. I have zero right to judge anyone else for being messy.” He buckles his seatbelt. “Thanks again for the ride.”

“No worries.” Ben starts the truck and pulls out onto the highway. “You like classic rock?”

“I love it,” Clint says, and that’s how he and Ben end up singing along to Queen for the entire thirty minute drive into Kansas City. All in all, it’s one of Clint’s better hitchhiking experiences. Not that he minds the small talk thing—always fun to lie and be someone else for awhile—but he’s down for this, too. It’s a nice, low pressure moment—exactly what he needs after being almost turned into a vampire.

He parts ways with Ben downtown, and walks the ten blocks to the safe house loft he rents with Natasha. They have a number of safe houses spread out across the country—some SHIELD sanctioned, some not. Clint can’t remember if this one is.

Not that it really matters, at this point. He needs information and safety more than he needs to keep his distance from SHIELD right now.

He breaks into the loft easily and kills the security alarm, then immediately goes for the safe bolted to the floor under the bed. It takes him a moment to remember the code, but he gets it after a few tries, pulling the door open to reveal a pile of money, and at least seven fake IDs.

“Perfect,” he says, grabbing one at random, tucking it into his pocket along with some money. He goes back into the kitchen and opens the silverware drawer, pulling out a phone and a charger.

Natasha answers this time. “Clint?”

“Yeah.” He collapses on the bed and plugs the phone in, putting it on speaker. “It’s me. I’m in the loft.”

“I’m in St. Louis,” she says, and he feels a little thrill that she came to help him so fast. “Are you safe?”

“For the moment.”

“Okay.” She pauses. “You’re going to have to come in, you know. This is too serious for you to be alone.”

“I know.” He sighs and rubs his eyes, suddenly feeling exhausted again. “I figured.”

“Tell me about Barnes,” she says. “He’s a vampire with Hydra?”

“That’s what he said.” Clint sits up so he doesn’t fall asleep in the middle of the conversation. “Also, you and I need to have a talk, because you never told me that ingesting vampire blood is what makes you a bloodsucker.”

“When would that have come up in conversation?”

“Remember the time I asked you, ‘Hey, Nat, how’d you become a vampire?’ That would’ve been a great moment.”

“I was born one,” she says. “And it’s not relevant, anyway, because if you’re close enough to be ingesting vampire blood, you’re already a lost cause.”

“Yeah, but I thought it was the bite—”

“Bite just makes you compliant.” She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “Did he try to change you?”

“Yeah. But it didn’t work?”

“It didn’t work?”

“No. He was freaking out about it. That’s why he was gonna bring me into headquarters.” Clint bites at his lip, thinking. “He said it was in D.C., by the way, so you might wanna slip that Fury’s way. He should know.”

“Hydra has nests everywhere. I’m not surprised.” Her voice is contemplative. “But I don’t understand why it didn’t change you.”

“Me neither,” Clint says. “I was kinda hoping you could give me an answer.” He taps his fingers on the bedspread, staring out the window. “He gave me a...catalyst? To go with it? Said it would speed up the change. That’s the only thing I can think of. Maybe that fucked it up somehow.”

“Possibly,” Nat says. “I’ll get back to you on it. Might take me a few days.”

She sounds tired, and Clint suddenly feels guilty that he’s not there. He knows he needed the time off—Fury probably would’ve made him take it if Clint hadn’t essentially thrown a temper tantrum and stormed off on his own—but still, he should be there. Should be helping.

_Been four weeks_ , he thinks, still staring out the window. _Probably time to get over yourself and go back._

“Alright,” he says. “I’m going to take a few more days. I don’t think he followed me here, but I’m going to be careful and cross a couple state lines before I come back.”

“That’s probably smart. Take some weapons from the loft.”

“I didn’t see any when I was looking.”

She sighs. “You forgot to restock after last December, didn’t you?”

Clint rubs his forehead, scowling. “Maybe.”

Another sigh. “If you can get to Nashville, I have a stash there. Might even have one of your bows.”

“You’re my favorite,” Clint tells her lovingly. “You planning on keeping this number? Just in case I lose the phone again.”

“I’ll hold onto it.” Her voice gets softer. “Keep me updated as much as you can.”

“Yeah, I promise.” He pauses, then says, “It’s good to hear your voice, Tasha.”

“You too. I—” There’s a muffled echo of voices, and then she says, “I need to go. Stay safe.”

The line goes dead.

Clint sighs at the ceiling, then reaches over and scoops up the phone. He’s hungry. Tired, too, but mostly hungry. He hasn’t eaten anything but vampire blood in hours, and he’s got doubts about the nutritional value of that.

“Breakfast, then sleep,” he says to the empty room. “Is pizza an acceptable breakfast item?”

After a moment, he decides he doesn’t care. He finds a place within walking distance, grabs the spare key taped under the kitchen counter, and heads out.

It’s early enough that the streets are still relatively empty, which is nice. Clint’s trying not to be super paranoid, but then again, is it paranoia if they really are out to get you? At least the empty streets make it easier for him to scan around, see if anyone’s following him.

The pizza place is about a twenty minute walk. Clint loves it instantly, mostly because they have breakfast pizza, which is not something he’s ever considered but is already a fan of. He orders the biggest one they have, then settles at a table outside to wait. It’s nice out, spring just barely edging into summer, still hovering in that ‘not quite warm enough to go without layers’ phase.

His pizza arrives a few minutes later, and Clint tears into it with enthusiasm. Bacon, eggs, and cheese all layered together on a pizza crust—it’s fucking perfect, he’s going to find somewhere in New York that does this and drag Tasha out to it—

The chair across from him is suddenly yanked backwards, and a heavy body drops into it. “Barton,” Barnes says, looking irritated as hell. “How’s the food?”

Clint freezes, slice halfway to his mouth as his brain tries to process what he’s seeing. “Uh...”

The waitress comes back over and flashes him a smile. “Hi,” she says. “Can I get you anything?”

“Just the check,” Barnes says sweetly to her. “We’ll be leaving in a minute.”

Clint glares at him. “How did you find me?”

“I have my methods.” He studies at Clint with an appraising gaze. “You look like hell.”

“There’s a vampire chasing me,” Clint says. “Doesn’t leave a lot of time for sleep. Or anything else.”

Barnes shrugs. “Would be easier if you quit running.”

“Like that’s gonna happen,” Clint mutters, already checking out exit strategies. He could flip the table, maybe, throw his pizza in Barnes’s face and make a run for it, could—

Something clicks around his wrist. A handcuff, the other end connected to Barnes. Clint stares at him, then at the cuffs. “Okay,” he says, shaking it. “You’re joking, right?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Barnes sets their joined arms on the table. “Last time was impressive, but I’m done playing games. You’re coming with me. You can’t fight it.”

“Fucking watch me,” Clint tells him, shaking their arms again. “You think this is gonna hold me? I got out of the other ones easy enough.”

“I didn’t close them right. And you realize I’ll knock you out if you try to escape again, right?”

“You realize your fucking vampire bite doesn’t work on me, right?” Clint holds up his other wrist, the bite marks on it still healing. “Bite me all you want, asshole. It’s not going to do anything.”

Barnes scowls, looking irritated again. “Yeah, I noticed. How did you do that?”

“Magic,” Clint says. “I don’t know, I don’t care.”

That’s not exactly true. He’s very curious, and considering Nat didn’t know either, that’s only made him even more interested. He’s never heard of any situation like his before—usually if the vampires get you, that’s it. You’re done.

“Doesn’t matter,” Barnes says. “The handlers will figure it out.” He starts to stand up. “Let’s go.”

“Hang on,” Clint says, yanking him back down. “I’m not done with my pizza.”

“I don’t—”

“I am _eating_.” Clint glares at him. “You wanna drag me off to Hydra, fine. But I’m not going on an empty stomach.”

Barnes stares at him, his mouth working slightly as he tries to come up with something to say. Clint makes a face at him, then tosses the menu his way. “Here. There’s vampire crap on there. I’ll buy you breakfast before you haul my ass off to the squid nazis, isn’t that just fucking nice of me.”

Barnes is still staring at him. Clint determinedly picks up his pizza and takes a bite.

“Fine,” Barnes says after a moment. “I—okay.” He looks at the menu, brow furrowing as he reads over the choices.

“Do you have a favorite kind of blood?” Clint asks, suddenly curious. “I know there’s different flavors and shit. My friend swears by werewolf blood. Told me it tastes like the moon.” He shrugs. “I have no idea what that means, so don’t ask.”

Barnes laughs, like it’s been startled out of him, and then looks surprised at himself. Clint grins and reaches for a fork to slip up his sleeve, just in case. Not that it’ll do much against a vampire, but a fork in the neck will at least slow him down for a moment.

“The handlers usually give me blood,” Barnes says, reaching over and grabbing the fork. Clint scowls, but he doesn’t comment. “I don’t—I’ve never had anything else.”

“Sounds boring,” Clint says. “Pick something. Bet you’ll like it.”

The waitress comes back over, pausing as she sees their handcuffed wrists on the table. “Is...is there a problem?” she asks, looking somewhat alarmed.

Clint stifles a laugh. “He wants blood,” he says, pointing at Barnes with his joined hand. “Not in like, a serial killer way. In a vampire way. What do you guys have?”

“We have a new type of siren blood,” she says slowly, still looking at the handcuffs. “Came in yesterday. We also have the usual selection—”

“Give him the good stuff,” Clint says. “He’s gonna be dealing with me for the next ten minutes, I’ll splurge.”

The waitress backs away, and Barnes glares at him. “Ten minutes?”

“Well,” Clint says. “Maybe twenty. Depends on how full I am after this.”

“If you really think you’re getting away again—”

“Shut up and drink your blood,” Clint retorts, taking another bite of his pizza. “Let’s just deal with things as they come, yeah?”

Barnes keeps glaring.

“You know you’re not as scary as you think you are, right?”

Still glaring.

“I mean—not that broody vampire isn’t your look, because it totally is. Very hot. But I’m not scared.”

Barnes blinks, the glare suddenly melting into confusion. “Very...hot?”

Clint shrugs. “You’re kinda my type, you know. Or you would be, if you weren’t kidnapping me.”

The waitress comes back in time to hear that, and she hesitates again, then sets the blood down in front of Barnes before hurrying away again.

“I am not kidnapping you,” Barnes says, almost sounding offended. “You’re my mission. I’m bringing you in.”

“Yeah, against my will, which is like...the definition of kidnapping.”

“I—” Barnes scowls and shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not arguing with you. Eat your food.”

Clint smirks and picks up his pizza, watching with vague interest as Barnes picks up the cup of blood. He sniffs it, makes an odd face, then takes a tiny sip. After a moment, he takes another, a puzzled expression crossing his features.

“Not good?” Clint asks around a mouthful of pizza.

“It’s fine,” Barnes says. He looks into the cup, then adds, “It’s...sweet.”

“Yeah, siren blood’s supposed to be really sweet. My friend says its gross.” He reaches for his napkin with their joined hands, snickering as it pulls Barnes off balance for a moment. “So. How exactly do you think you’re getting me to D.C.?”

“I have equipment in the van if I need,” Barnes says, drinking it again. “I’m not worried.”

“That’s ominous,” Clint says. “Also, really vague. What kind of equipment? Shovels? Power tools? Sex toys?”

Barnes chokes on his blood, setting the cup heavily on the table and coughing. “ _What?_ ” he finally manages, face red.

“I mean, you say equipment—that’s a wide range of shit, you know—”

“I am not carrying _sex toys_ in the back of my van, Barton!”

“Really? I was.” He wasn’t, but it’s worth the lie to see the shocked and somewhat scandalized look on Barnes’ face. “Are you sure you wanna take me in? I’m gonna be like this the whole way, you know.”

“I have duct tape.”

“Ooh. Very intimidating. Quaking in my boots.” He takes another bite of his pizza, casually scanning the area. He’ll have to ditch the handcuffs. That’s priority one. They’re loose enough that he’s sure he can slip them without too much trouble—maybe a dislocated thumb, which he _hates_ doing. From there, he’ll have to move fast enough to lose Barnes in the streets, which is...problematic. He’s fast, but he’s not fast enough to outrun a vampire. Especially not a vampire who’s running on fresh blood. He might be able to—

“Stop thinking about it,” Barnes says.

“You have no idea what I’m thinking about,” Clint shoots back.

“You’re not going to get anywhere, Barton. It’s not worth the effort. And the more you run, the more you’re going to piss me off.”

“If you’re about to tell me I wouldn’t like you when you’re angry, I’m sorry to say that someone else uses that line, and he delivers on the idea a hell of a lot more than you do.” Clint nibbles at his pizza. It’s almost gone. He’s running out of both time and ideas.

“I _will_ knock you out again,” Barnes says. “Even if the bite doesn’t work, there’s other options.”

“Is this the part where you unroll your scary leather pack of syringes?”

“This might be the part where I slam your goddamn head into the table,” Barnes growls.

They’re still glaring at each other when a shadow descends on the table, and a voice interrupts them. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

Clint looks up to see one of Kansas City’s finest, a younger looking police officer standing confidently in front of their table. Clint does his usual threat assessment, coming up on the relatively low end of the scale—she looks strong, but he can always use Barnes as a shield—and flashes a smile at her. “Hi there. Can I help you?”

“My name is Officer O’Brien,” she says, silver eyes studying him right back. Werewolf, then. “The establishment called with some concerns. Care to tell me what this is about?” She gestures to the handcuffs.

Barnes holds up his free hand. “I’m an FBI agent,” he says. “Can I show you my badge?”

“He’s kidnapping me,” Clint says. “Gonna drag me off to his vampire nest.”

“I am not.” Barnes glares at him. “I’m bringing him in, ma’am. I have the paperwork for it.”

“I’ll need to see that,” she says. “The badge, please. Take it out slowly.” Her hands are loose by her side, but Clint can see the stance she’s in, and how tense she is. She’s ready for action.

“Inside jacket pocket,” Barnes says, and slowly moves his hand, pulling out the badge with two fingers. He hands it to her, along with an envelope. “That should all be in order.”

She examines it, eyes flickering over the papers and the badge. “Do you have a supervisor I can speak to?”

Barnes tenses—so subtly that there’s no way she would’ve picked up on it. But Clint does, attuned as he is to Barnes’ movements, and he grins broadly.

“I also wanna know that,” he says. “Who is your supervisor, Barnes? I’d _love_ to speak with them.”

Barnes narrows his eyes at him, then turns to the officer. “I can get them for you,” he says, and pulls out the flip phone. He dials, then puts it up to his ear. “It’s me.” A pause, and he grimaces. “There’s a police officer here. They want to speak to a supervisor.”

He holds the phone out to the woman, and she takes it. “Hello,” she says, walking a few steps away from the table. Barnes immediately goes back to glaring at Clint, eyes narrowed so much that Clint’s not actually sure how he’s seeing anything.

He glances at his watch. “Ten minutes,” he says casually, and the glare intensifies. He’s not one-hundred percent sure on how to get out of this one, but he’s gonna give it his best shot.

The officer comes back over and hands him the phone. Barnes takes it like it’s going to burn his fingers, wariness written all over him. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave the establishment,” she says. “At the request of the owner.”

“That’s fine,” Barnes says, getting up. “We’re going anyway.” He gets up, pulling on the handcuffs. “Come on, Barton. We’re leaving.”

“But I’m not done—”

“Yeah, and I don’t care.” He yanks Clint up, then awkwardly twists his arm behind his back, using it to shove him towards the patio exit.

“The manhandling,” Clint says, squirming in his iron grip, “is _so_ not necessary.”

“I wouldn’t have to if you’d just behave yourself.” Barnes shoves him down the nearby alleyway towards his van.

“Look,” Clint starts, and then finds himself with a facefull of bricks, the feeling of them rough under his cheek. “Whoa—hey—”

“I’m getting tired of this,” Barnes hisses in his ear. “You’re coming with me. You will be quiet. You will not try to escape. If you do anything other than what I tell you, I _will_ escalate my methods. You don’t want that.”

“Man—” Clint twists in his grip, but he’s so fucking strong that all it earns him is a scrape on his cheek. “Look, I promise I’m not worth the trouble, alright? I’m a lousy agent, and I’m shit at following orders. I’ll make a terrible asset. I fuck everything up. Just let me go.”

Barnes pauses at that, hands loosening slightly from where it’s shoving Clint’s face into the wall. “That’s not true,” he says after a moment.

Clint blinks. “What?”

“You’re a good agent.” Barnes lets go, stepping back from him. “I’ve been studying you. You’re highly talented.”

Clint doesn’t know what to say to that. He _knows_ he’s a shit agent, he had three different handlers from three different agencies essentially scream it at him after the last op. _Reckless. Dangerous. Insubordinate._ None of which’ve hurt so much if Nat hadn’t quietly stood to the side, something like agreement in her eyes. And if Clint hadn’t been staring at a body count of his own making, still hearing the blast of an explosion in his ears.

He shrugs off the moment with a cocky smile that he hopes hides the pain twisting in his heart. “That’s kinda creepy,” he says. “The fuck does _studying me_ entail? You been spying on me?”

“Yes,” Barnes says, and pulls him towards the van. “I needed to understand your tactics to have the best method of apprehending you.”

Clint turns that over in his mind as Barnes opens the van, shoving him into the passenger seat. He undoes the handcuff from his own wrist, locking Clint to the handle on the door. Clint rattles it once or twice, earning himself another glare, and then Barnes slams the door shut and gets in the driver’s side.

“So how much did you watch?” Clint asks, idly curious. “Like—did you follow me for a week or something? _More importantly, how did I not notice you doing that?_

“The handlers had recordings,” Barnes says, starting the van. He pulls out into traffic, carefully looking both ways first. “And I followed you from a distance on your operation in Moscow.”

“Moscow was like...three months ago.” Clint shivers, the implications becoming clear. “How long have they been planning this little snatch ’n grab?”

“Some time,” Barnes says quietly. “I’m not sure how long exactly.”

Clint frowns, watching the scenery pass by out the window. “Hang on,” he says after a moment. “So you studied my methods—watched me do some ops, tailed me—and then decided the best way to apprehend was to...seduce me?”

“It did seem to have the highest chance of success,” Barnes says. “And given where we are now, I’d say it worked.”

Clint would protest otherwise, but the argument kind of falls flat when faced with the truth—he absolutely would’ve fucked Barnes, given the chance. Still kinda wants to, although that’s his danger kink talking more than anything else. And it did give Barnes the opening, allow him to slip in close and get under Clint’s defenses.

“I don’t know what that says about me,” he says after a moment, glancing at Barnes just in time to a hint of a smirk flash over his face. “Whoa—hey—did I just make you laugh again? Are you laughing?”

“No,” Barnes says, and the amusement disappears.

Clint grins. “I did. I made you laugh.”

“You did not.”

“Did too.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

Barnes lets out an annoyed growl, and Clint snickers quietly. “I’m serious,” he says. “I can and will do this the whole way. If you’re gonna drag me to Hydra, I’m gonna annoy the shit out of you the whole way.”

“I can knock you out.”

Clint holds out his free wrist. “Go for it,” he says, only half-sure that it won’t work again. It might’ve just been a fluke, before. Like maybe he had too much in his system already and more wouldn’t work.

Barnes glares at him again and shoves his wrist to the side. “Sit still and be quiet.”

“It’s like you don’t even know me at all,” Clint says, leaning against the window. He kicks his feet up on the dashboard. “Can we stop for coffee?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“I said no.”

“What if I promise to be quiet the whole time I’m drinking it?”

Barnes’ fingers tighten on the steering wheel. “I’m not stopping the car, Barton.”

“Just think of it.” Clint taps his boot against the windshield. “A whole coffee cup’s worth of silence. And I’ll get the biggest one, you know. I take my caffeine seriously.”

No answer, so he keeps going. “I mean, if it’s what you want, I can talk the whole time to. I’m good at it. Got lots of stories to share.” He stretches his arm over his head, cracks his back. “I parachuted into an open volcano once. That was interesting. See, we were on this mission in Italy, right? And there’s a volcano there called Stromboli—”

Barnes suddenly yanks on the wheel, sharply turning the van. Clint yelps as he slips in the seat, nearly toppling into the footwell. “Hey!” he yells, hand scrambling for the door. “Watch it!”

“Not a word,” Barnes says. “The whole time.”

Clint rights himself in time to see they’re in a Starbucks parking lot. “You do love me,” he says, and Barnes rolls his eyes as they pull into the line of cars.

“I just want you to stop talking.”

“That’s how it starts.” Clint grins at him.

Barnes growls in response, then gestures to the menu. “What do you want?”

“Coffee. Black. Biggest cup they’ve got.” Clint rubs his chin. “You know, I think they have blood products too. You could get a smoothie.” He digs some money out of his pocket. “I’ll buy.”

“I don’t need a smoothie.”

“But they’re pretty good, I hear.”

“I am nutritionally optimal at this time.”

Clint blinks. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I do not require any further calories—”

“So get it for fun. What’s the point of eating only the calories you need? You’re not a robot. Live a little.” 

Bucky looks confused, like that’s the weirdest thing he’s ever heard, and shakes his head. They pull up to the speaker, and he orders in a surprisingly polite voice before leaning over and grabbing the money from Clint’s hand. “Give me that.”

“Still think you should’ve gotten a smoothie,” Clint says, “Maybe you’d be less crabby if you ate more.”

“I am not _crabby_ —” He rolls down the window and smiles charmingly at the lady handing him the drink. He takes it, passes it to Clint, and hands her the money. “Keep the change,” he says to her, and hits the gas.

“That was twenty dollars!” Clint protests. “This is like...a three dollar cup!”

“Is it?” is all Barnes says, pulling back onto the road. “Shut up and drink. You’re lucky I stopped at all.”

The van slows to a stop at a red light, and Barnes takes his hands off the steering wheel. He peels the gloves off his hands—tight leather things that Clint has been vaguely curious about. He drops them in his lap, then flexes his fingers before grabbing the wheel again.

“Oh damn,” Clint says before he can stop himself. He can’t help it. “Is that a metal hand?”

Barnes glances at him, then down at his left hand. “Yes,” he says, flexing it, and Clint stares at the silver plates as they whir and move. “The whole arm.”

“Your whole arm is metal?” Clint sits up a little straighter. “Dude, that’s _so_ cool. Why?”

Barnes’ eyebrows furrow. “You...like it?”

“I mean—” Clint shrugs. “Yeah. Why’d you get it? Who designed it?”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he regrets them. Barnes’ hands tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles on his right hand going white. The light turns green, but he doesn’t go, eyes suddenly distant like he’s not seeing what’s in front of him at all. It’s a look Clint recognizes well, one that he’s seen on himself. It’s half the reason he’s in the situation he’s in right now.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I didn’t mean to...” He trails off. “I’m sorry.”

Barnes seems to shake himself back to reality a moment later. “Unstable,” he mutters, and grimaces. Then he slams the gas down, shooting the car through a yellow light and down the street. Clint grabs the handle of the door and thanks whatever gods are out there that the traffic’s not too heavy. Barnes doesn’t seem out of control, though—really, just the opposite. He’s weaving in and out of cars with a precision that borders on surgical, just fast enough to keep them moving. Focusing intently on what’s around him. Clint knows that feeling too, and there’s a pit in his stomach as he looks at Barnes.

“I retract my previous assessment, by the way,” he says, aiming to lighten the mood a tiny bit. Kidnapper or not, vampire or not, Clint can’t help but empathize with Barnes at least a little bit. He knows what it’s like to be haunted by memories. “You _are_ a robot.”

For a moment, he thinks Barnes isn’t going to answer. “I am not.”

“You’ve got a metal arm.” A _hot_ metal arm, but a metal arm nonetheless.

Barnes rolls his eyes. “That doesn’t make me a robot. If anything, that makes me a cyborg.”

Clint stares at him, trying to process. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“I...did you just make a joke?”

There’s no answer, but the corner of his mouth quirks up, just barely noticeable.

“You did,” Clint says, and grins, thrilled his plan is working. “I’m so proud I could cry.”

“You said no talking,” Barnes says. “You said if I got you coffee, you wouldn’t talk.”

Clint nods. “I did say that.” He holds up the cup. “Okay. Lips sealed.”

“Thank god,” Barnes mutters, and Clint snickers, then settles in to drink his coffee.

It takes him the better part of an hour, which he uses to plan his escape. If they’re going to D.C., they’ll have to stop the car at some point to get gas. That’s the only sure thing—he knows vampires don’t sleep as much as humans do, meaning he can’t count on Barnes making any motel stops. Determined as he is, he’ll probably drive all through the night to make it.

So, gas station is the best shot. Step one down. Step two, handcuffs. He _can_ dislocate his thumb, but he really doesn’t want to. He hates doing it and he’ll need both hands immediately usable. Which means he needs something to pick the lock with again. He doesn’t have any more paperclips, and the van is pin-neat, but maybe—

With a half-formed plan in mind, he punches the radio, cranking it up. Luckily, it’s a song he knows, so he can sing along, loud and off-key. He’s actually a fairly decent singer with his hearing aids in, but he’s fine-tuned his horribleness to annoy Natasha, so this guy doesn’t stand a chance.

Sure enough, after about thirty seconds, Barnes leans over and turns it off. “Be quiet.”

“Hey,” Clint says. “I liked that one.”

“No music.”

“Seriously? You’re gonna make us road trip sixteen hours without music?” Clint groans theatrically. “What’re we supposed to do, sit in grumpy silence the whole time?”

“I am not _grumpy_.”

“Broody, then.” It’s not going to be sixteen hours, but Clint’s not going to tell him that. “Sixteen hours of broody vampire silence. So boring. Do you have any paper?”

Barnes blinks, looks over at him. “Any...what?”

Clint mimes writing. “You know. Pen. Paper. Writing things.”

Barnes gives him a skeptical look. “Why?”

“So I can write notes for help and drop them out the window as we drive?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “You think that’s gonna help?”

“I think I’m bored,” Clint says. “If you’re not gonna talk, and you won’t play the radio, then I gotta do something. I like to draw, okay? Little sketches and shit.”

It’s an absolute lie, he’s never drawn a damn thing in his life. But he tilts his head, and makes his eyes go all pleading—puppy dog eyes, Nat would say—and tosses in a half-shrug for good measure. “Also, the more occupied my hands are, the less I’ll annoy you.”

“Fine,” Barnes says after a moment. “I think there’s a notebook in the glovebox.”

_Bingo_ , Clint thinks, and reaches for it.

“I’m stopping for gas up here,” Barnes adds, gesturing to a sign on the highway. “I’m going to leave you in the car. If you even think about getting out, I will catch you and you will not like the consequences. Do I make myself clear?”

All Clint hears is _I’m going to give you a golden opportunity to run away_ but he nods anyway, and digs around in the glovebox, coming up with a miniature spiral notebook and a pen. _Hell yeah, even better_. “I’ll be very good,” he promises, smiling as innocently as he can. “Like a little angel.”

Barnes doesn’t look like he believes Clint for a second, but he pulls into the station anyway, turning off the car. He leans over Clint and tightens the cuff around his wrist, then secures the one around the door handle. “No moving,” he growls.

“You’re interrupting my drawing,” Clint complains, just to keep up appearances. Barnes scowls at him and moves back, climbing out his side and locking the door. He glares at Clint through the glass for a moment, then turns to the gas pump.

As soon as he does, Clint starts working on the notebook, pulling the coil out as best as he can and straightening it. He manages to get it almost all the way out before there’s a quiet thump against the side of the van.

Barnes yanks the door open and pokes his head in. “I have to pay inside,” he says, sounding frustrated, and Clint’s suddenly reminded of the old lady who lives across the hall, who keeps calling him to help with her computer. There’s that same tone in Barnes’ voice, that inherent ‘why does technology hate me’ sound that always amuses him a little.

“You handcuffed me to the door,” Clint says, rattling it for emphasis. “Where the hell do you think I’m gonna go?”

Barnes’ eyes narrow. “If you even think—”

“Scary vampire consequences, I _know_. I heard the speech, spare me.” He digs out another bill from his pocket. “Hey, while you’re in there, can you get me more coffee?”

Barnes takes the bill like it’s going to explode. “You need _more?_ ”

“Can never have too much.” Clint shrugs. “I’ll be quiet again?”

Barnes sighs and nods. “Coffee,” he says, reaching for his gloves.

“Absurd amounts of it,” Clint clarifies. “Or else _something_ with caffeine, if they don’t have any brewed. Energy drink or whatever. Read the labels and figure out which one’s gonna make my heart explode if I drink it, then get that one.”

There’s a hesitant look on Barnes’ face, like he’s not sure if this is the right move to be making. But he nods after a moment, then points a finger at Clint. “No moving,” he says, and pulls up his jacket a little. “I will shoot you. I need you alive, but if I have to incapacitate you to bring you in, I will.”

“Noted,” Clint says. “Coffee. You. Now.”

He glares at Clint, then slams the door shut and stalks inside. As soon as the automatic doors slide shut behind him, Clint fumbles the wire into a useful shape and picks the lock on the cuffs, popping it open easily. He tucks both items into his pocket before grabbing the pen.

In the gas station, Barnes is examining a can, his eyes narrowed as he reads the label. He looks out the window, and Clint waves cheerfully at him. Barnes scowls and looks down again.

Clint scrawls “better luck next time” next to a little kissy face on the paper, then sticks it on the dashboard. He watches through the gas station window, waiting for the perfect moment.

Barnes glances at him again, then steps to the side to put whatever he’s getting on the counter. It’s not much, but it’s far enough to the side that for a brief moment, his sightline is interrupted.

“See ya,” Clint says, and he scrambles through the van, exiting out the opposite passenger side. He doesn’t bother closing the door, just takes off through the parking lot. There’s an RV parked off to the side, and he quickly ducks behind it, pressing himself against the far wheels. On an idle whim, he reaches up and tries the door. _Hopefully someone was an idiot—_

In a rare shift of luck, someone _was_ an idiot, and the door opens. Clint cheers silently and slips inside the RV, tugging it shut behind him before carefully peeking out of the shuttered window. Through the tiny sliver of glass, he sees Barnes come walking out of the gas station, bag in hand. He looks at the car, stops for a second, then hurries over, dropping the bag on the ground. Clint can’t see his face very well, but he doesn’t need to see an expression to know that Barnes is _pissed_.

Barnes spins around in a circle, then does it again. Clint grins as he kicks the car hard enough to leave a dent, then stalks off across the parking lot, clearly going to check out the rest of the gas station.

There’s a noise to his left, and he drops the curtain, turning to look. A kid’s standing in the back doorway, maybe thirteen or fourteen years old. She’s tiny, slim-faced and fine boned. A pixie. She doesn’t look scared, but she’s definitely wary, hovering by the door like she can’t decide if she’s going to run past him or stay where she is.

“Hi,” Clint says awkwardly, and holds his hands up. “Um. Hi. I’m not here to hurt you.” He winces. “I’m just...hiding.”

She stares at him, purple eyes wide. Clint’s own eyes flick to her ears, where he can just barely see the shell of a BTE tucked underneath the silver hair. He smiles, and taps his ear, drawing her attention to his own aids. They’re not his BTEs, but those don’t last as long and he was trying to avoid contacting Stark for help. “Me too,” he adds, and she doesn’t relax, but her face goes a little softer.

“Who are you?” she asks.

“My name is Clint,” he says. “There’s someone chasing me. I’m hiding.”

Her eyes narrow. “Who’s chasing you?”

“Mr. Dark and Scary,” he says, gesturing to the window. She peeks out, barely lifting the shades like he did.

“Why?” she asks, squinting through the glass.

“Long story.”

She nods. “What do you want me to do?”

“If he comes knocking, can you...tell him I’m not here?” He looks around. “I’m just gonna...hide in the back.”

She looks skeptical. “ _You’re_ hiding from him?”

Clint nods.

“But you want _me_ to answer the door?”

“He’s not going to hurt you,” Clint says, although he’s not actually certain of that. But Barnes hasn’t hurt any civilians so far. “He’s looking for me. If he does anything just...move back. I’ll take care of it.” He grimaces. She’s _tiny_. Barnes could probably break her in half without breaking a sweat before Clint took two steps towards him. “What’s your name?”

“Kendra.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder and drops the shade. “He’s coming this way.”

“I’m sure.” Clint moves into the back of the trailer, turning on the TV to help cover sound. He doesn’t know if the lore about vampires distinguishing multiple heartbeats is true or not, but he’s not going to risk it. “Okay. You got this?”

“I got it,” she says, overconfident, and motions for him to get out of sight. Clint does, settling himself in a place where he can just barely see the RV door.

A moment later, there’s a knock. Kendra glances at him, then moves to open it, picking up a blanket from the kitchen table setup and draping it around her shoulders. “Hi,” she says, coughing a little at the end of it. “Can I help you?”

“Did a blond man come in here?”

Clint nearly bursts out laughing at the straightforwardness of it. He can only imagine the looks on both their faces. It fits with what he saw in the bar, honestly. Whoever trained Barnes at Hydra apparently didn’t put any emphasis on subtlety.

“No,” Kendra says. “Who are you?”

“My name is Don Newcombe,” he says. “I’m with the FBI. I’m looking for this man, have you seen him?” He must show her a picture or something, because she leans forward, then shakes her head.

“I’m sick,” she says. “My dad’s getting medicine. He’ll be back in a minute. I haven’t seen anybody but him.”

“Have you heard anything unusual? Windows opening, someone climbing on top of the RV?”

“No.”

“Do you mind if I— ”

“You can’t come in, my dad will flip.”

“I wasn’t—”

There’s yelling outside the RV, then, and Clint peeks out the window to see a small, silver-haired man flying over. He settles on the ground, wings flared out, and marches right up to Barnes, shoving a finger in his chest. Kendra closes the door, so Clint can’t make out most of it, but he gets the gist of it. He can’t help but grin as he watches Barnes—who’s built like a goddamn tank and has a literal metal arm—get bullied down by this four-foot pixie. It’s fucking hilarious.

Barnes finally backs off, hands up, and the man storms towards the trailer. “Hide,” Kendra says, and Clint ducks further behind the door.

The man storms into the trailer, ranting about Barnes. Kendra closes the pocket door to the room and goes to talk with him, her voice muffled. Clint just stands there awkwardly, not really sure what to do now. His plan hadn’t extended beyond just getting out of sight and away from Barnes.

He looks out the window again. Barnes is still standing in the parking lot, one hand gripping his hair in a frustrated stance. He looks...afraid, almost. Clint’s not really sure what of, but he can see it written all over Barnes’ normally stoic face.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. There’s a tiny part of him that really is. The way Barnes had spoken about Hydra, the fear in his voice, how the words had stumbled out of his mouth—

_I can’t fail this one. They’ll punish me._

Clint feels for him. He’s sure Barnes will get punished, somehow. The things he’s heard of Hydra from defectors haven’t been good. But honestly, if it’s between that or being taken in, well...he knows what choice he’ll make. Every single time.

The RV starts, and Clint sighs, settling against the wall. He wasn’t planning on a road trip, but if gets him away from here, he doesn’t really care. He’ll figure out where they’re going and how to get back later.

Kendra opens the door a few minutes after that. The blanket’s gone, and he can see the slim purple wings tucked along her back, the ridges just barely visible over her shoulders. “My dad thinks I have a headache,” she says. “So I’m laying down back here for a bit.” She eyes him. “Are you really a dangerous criminal?”

“Sometimes,” Clint says. “That a problem?”

She shrugs. “No.”

“You’re very trusting.”

“I have ways to protect myself,” she says, eyes flashing a little brighter. “You’re just a human, anyway.”

Clint glances down at the bites on his wrists. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Just a human.”

Kendra moves past him, going to a little cabinet on the wall, pulling out some snacks. “So what’s next?” she asks. “Like, you got away from him. Do you call the police or what?”

“No. I have someone else to call.” He looks out the window. “We going west?”

“We’re going to California,” she says. “We always spend the summers in San Diego.”

“San Diego’s nice,” Clint says. “Nice surfing. Good food.”

She nods. “You can get off at the next gas stop. I don’t know how long I can keep you hidden from my dad.”

“For what it’s worth,” Clint says, “you saved my ass. I appreciate the help.”

Kendra nods again and offers him out a bag of Cheetos. “Hungry?”

“Starving,” Clint says, and takes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://clintscoffeepot.tumblr.com/). Thank you!
> 
> Also you will note there are now only 11 chapters, that's bc we decided to combine 3 and 4 for better flow.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barnes’ hand tightens, cutting off Clint’s air entirely. He struggles, flailing with everything he’s got, but there’s no prying Barnes off. The metal hand is too strong, the rest of him too powerful, and Clint doesn’t stand a chance against him. He’s only human, after all, and he’s just not good enough.

They wind up in Denver. There’s no good places for him to get out along the way, so Clint resigns himself to hiding in the tiny room for the remainder of the trip. Kendra finds him a pack of cards, which mostly results in him playing rounds of solitaire when he’s alone, and teaching Kendra various games when she’s around. She’s damn good, too, cleaning him out of most of his money within the first few rounds of speed.

Funnily enough, it’s the happiest he’s been in weeks, really. He’s safe, he’s alive, and he’s not in immediate danger. It’s nice enough that he lets his guard down a little, relaxes just a tiny bit.

The RV pulls into the entrance of a camping lot, and Kendra gets up. “Give me a sec,” she says, and disappears up front. A few minutes later, she comes back in. “Dad’s going to check us in,” she says. “This is a good time for you to go. He’ll be a couple minutes.”

“Okay,” Clint says, and gets up. “Hey—I really appreciate—”

“I know,” she interrupts. “This was fun. I usually hate this road trip. You made it way more interesting.”

He smiles. “For the record, you probably shouldn’t make a habit of hiding strange men in the back of your RV.”

“My dad would’ve killed you if you hurt me,” she says, matter-of-fact, and hands his money back to him. “You need this more than me, I think.”

“Probably.” He tucks it into his jacket. “Okay. Well, have fun in San Diego. Eat some tacos for me.”

“Sure,” she says, and shows him out the door. “Good luck running from Mr. Dark and Scary.”

“With any luck, we lost him in Kansas City,” Clint says, and ducks out the door, disappearing among the rows of cars. That was lucky—lucky in a way he never is. Hopefully it was enough to lose Barnes. He needs to call Nat again, let her know where he is.

He starts walking, moving away from the Walmart, heading towards downtown. He has no idea what day of the week it is, but it’s nighttime, and the bars are starting to fill up, drunk college students and tourists milling around. He pickpockets a drunk college kid easily, taking her phone, dialing and walking at the same time. “Tasha?”

“Clint? Where the hell—”

“Denver.”

“How did you—”

“Long fucking story. This guy’s good, Tasha. He tracked me from St. Louis to KC.”

“How’d you lose him?”

“Ditched him at a gas station, met a pixie girl and hitched a ride in her RV. I think I’m good unless he followed me here.” Which he supposes is possible, but he’s pretty sure—

The back of his neck prickles, a sudden sense of _danger danger danger_ descending on him. Clint barely has time to turn around when something slams into him, nearly knocking him off his feet. He drops the phone in the ensuing struggle, flailing as he’s dragged around the corner. “What the fuck—”

Barnes slams him into the brick wall, one hand around his throat. His eyes are slowly turning crimson, the blue washing out in shades of red. “You,” he snarls, fangs catching the gleam of the nearby streetlight, “are way too much fucking trouble.”

“Oh come _on_ ,” Clint grits out, scrabbling at his fingers. “What does it take to make you give up, huh?”

“I have to bring you in—” Barnes easily grabs his wrists in his other hand, pinning them above his head. “Just stop _fighting_ me—“

“Fat fucking chance,” Clint snarls, kicking at him. “I told you, I’m not worth the trouble—”

Barnes’ hand tightens, cutting off Clint’s air entirely. He struggles, flailing with everything he’s got, but there’s no prying Barnes off. The metal hand is too strong, the rest of him too powerful, and Clint doesn’t stand a chance against him. He’s only human, after all, and he’s just not _good_ enough.

His vision tunnels, dark spots creeping in at the edges. Eventually, it dims entirely, and he slips into unconsciousness.

He wakes up tied to a chair, again. In a motel room, _again_. Except this time, Barnes isn’t sitting in the shadows like a terrible movie villain. He’s standing right in front of Clint, arms crossed and a furious expression on his face. “Welcome back,” he says coldly.

Clint blinks, winces as his headache makes itself known. “Hi,” he says hoarsely, feeling like he’s swallowed a bunch of knives. “Uh—”

“Don’t,” Barnes snaps. “Not a goddamn word out of you.”

Clint licks his lips, recognizing the taste in his mouth. “Did you—” He grimaces as Barnes grabs his throat, fingers digging into what must be some real pretty bruises.

“I gave you blood,” Barnes says, confirming his suspicions. “A lot of it. And another catalyst. You’ll start changing soon. We’re not moving until you do.” He lets go, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. He crosses his arms and stares at Clint.

Clint coughs again, spitting on the floor. It’s gross, but so is having actual vampire blood in his mouth, so he feels like he’s entitled. “What if I don’t?”

“You’ll change,” Barnes growls, so fiercely that Clint half-expects to pop vampire fangs on the spot. “You _have_ to.”

_I didn’t last time_ , Clint thinks, but he doesn’t say it. “How long?”

“Hour at most,” Barnes says. “If you keep talking, I’ll gag you.”

Clint opens his mouth, but when Barnes pulls a roll of duct tape out of his bag, he closes it again. No point in poking the metaphorical bear. Or the very real vampire.

He shifts a little in his chair, but all it earns him is a narrow-eyed glare. Barnes is too close, anyway. Even if he did manage to get out, he’d make it maybe two steps. Maybe. If he was lucky.

“How did you find me?” he asks instead, keeping his voice calm and level.

“Instincts,” Barnes says. “I took a guess, followed the RV all the way here.” He looks like it, too, the circles under his eyes even more pronounced. “Then I saw you leaving, and I grabbed you.”

Clint scowls, but he has to admit it was a good move. “I guess.”

“The notebook thing was clever,” Barnes says, and Clint looks at him in surprise. “Should’ve stolen the car.”

“I—“ Clint stops, thinking about it, and then wants to kick himself in the head. “Yeah. That would’ve been smart.”

Barnes smirks a little. “You move too fast,” he says. “You don’t consider all the options. Leaves rooms for mistakes.”

“Are you seriously giving me advice?” Clint asks, staring at him. “What—you think this is Spy 101 class or something? I do just fine, asshole. Got away from you, didn’t I?”

Barnes drops the smirk, cold fury stealing over his features. “It won’t happen again.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Clint says, and then snaps his mouth shut. He doesn’t want the duct tape, and he probably shouldn’t piss off the vampire, as annoyed as he is.

“Can I get some water?” he asks quietly, forcing his tone to be a little nicer. “Wash out the vampire taste.” 

Barnes shakes his head. “I’m not moving.”

“I’m not gonna go anywhere—”

“I am _not_ falling for that again,” Barnes snaps, and Clint can’t help the grin that spills over his face.

“You’re not the first one,” he assures Barnes. “Many, many bad guys have assumed they could keep me tied up. Always a fun time.”

“Sit there and shut up,” Barnes growls. His eyes are even more red, the crimson red nearly taking over the blue. Clint’s seen this on Natasha before, mostly on longer missions where she doesn’t have as good of access to blood. Barnes is thirsty—hungry?—and Clint doesn’t know what that means, but he’s sure it’s not good. Natasha tends to get a little more angry, when she needs blood. A little extra homicidal. Clint does not want to see that on Barnes.

“You need blood,” he says, and Barnes narrows his eyes. “Like, stat. Do vampires get blood sugar crashes? Because you sound kind of hangry, to be honest—”

Barnes tears off a strip of duct tape, slaps it over his mouth. “Shut up,” he growls, sitting on the bed again. “I don’t need anything.”

Clint raises his eyebrows, giving him his best “uh-huh” from under the tape. Not that he _really_ cares, but he’s a little concerned that if Barnes doesn’t get blood, he’s going to either get angrier—if _that’s_ possible—or he’s going to start seeing Clint as a viable dinner option.

“I’m fine,” Barnes says again, sounding a little more like he’s trying to convince himself. “I am within functional capacity.”

There’s an odd cadence to his tone, like he’s parroting someone else’s words. He almost sounds robotic, flat, and Clint wonders if that’s a Hydra phrase. The implications aren’t good, if that’s the case. He doesn’t know what counts as _functional capacity_ , but it looks like they were teaching Barnes to ignore his body, ignore any needs that he might have. Which Clint does too, to be fair, but also he knows when to stop. Kind of.

Point being, if he looked the way Barnes does right now, he’d probably at least take a nap or something. He knows from Natasha that vampires don’t sleep as much, but they still need to sleep. Barnes looks like he’s about to keel over any minute. Long, slow blinks, head tilting forward—

_Holy shit,_ Clint thinks, staring at him. _He’s actually falling asleep._

He holds perfectly still, barely even daring to breathe. This is the luckiest thing that’s ever happened in his entire _life_ , he doesn’t want his usual chaos to fuck it up—

Barnes jerks awake, glaring at Clint, who just blinks innocently at him. He sits up straighter, left hand digging into his thigh, and Clint can faintly hear the whirring of plates as the fingers move. There’s a few minutes where they stare at each other, doing the world’s most awkward staring contest. Then Barnes blinks again, long and slow, and his head starts to tip again.

_Sleep_ , Clint thinks. _Sleep, sleep, sleep. Nice happy vampire dreams_. He starts slowly working on his wrists, twisting them under the ropes. Barnes tied him tight, but he’s been getting out of ropes since his circus days. He can slip anything, given enough time.

He manages to free one wrist. A tiny little grunt of pain escapes him, the ropes making his wrist raw, and he glances up at Barnes with a worried look. But all that happens is he shifts a little, eyes still closed.

Clint makes quick work of the rest of the ropes, then slowly stands up. Then he inches his way past Barnes, tiny step by tiny step. It takes him almost ten minutes to get to the door. Vampires have super hearing, he knows, and he doesn’t want to creak a floorboard at the wrong time or anything. _Do not fuck this up._

As he touches the door handle, though, there’s a short noise from the bed. A sharp little cry that makes him freeze, then spin around. He expects to face an angry vampire, but Barnes is still asleep on the bed. Clint can’t see his face, but he _knows_ that sound. He’s heard it before.

_Nightmares_ , he thinks as another short whimper splits the air. He winces in sympathy. Nightmares suck, no matter who you are, and there’s a little part of him that wants to go wake Barnes up, help pull him out of it—

“What the fuck,” Clint mutters, and puts his hand on the door. _This guy tried to kidnap and turn you into a vampire, Hawkeye. The fuck is the matter with you?_

He eases the door open, just enough for him to slip out, and then carefully pulls it shut behind him. As soon as his hand is off the handle, he takes off, sprinting down the hallway as fast as he can, pulling off the tape while he goes. He finds the stairs at the end, books his way down them, and goes out the side door.

He runs for a long time, not stopping until he feels like he’s a safe distance away. He’s not sure how good at tracking vampires are—or if Barnes is even awake—but better to be safe than sorry. It’s probably only been a few hours, judging the way the bars are still full, the moon still high in the sky.

Clint finds a touristy street, one packed with bars and people. He melts into the crowd, forcing himself to walk instead of run, forcing a relaxed look on his face. _Gotta blend in_.

He swipes a sweatshirt off the back of a chair as he walks past a restaurant, its owner too busy drinking to notice. From another group of people he grabs yet another phone, and lifts someone’s wallet out of their pocket as he moves by. A tiny part of him feels bad about the trail of theft, the rest of him really just wants to get the fuck out of here and back to New York.

Which is funny, if he thinks about it, given how hard he’s been _avoiding_ New York. But desperate times and all. Barnes is too damn good, falling asleep aside.

He calls Tasha, but she doesn’t answer. It’s not entirely unexpected, and he leaves her a voicemail with the promise to call again before tossing the phone in a trashcan. Then he swaps his jacket for the sweatshirt, and picks up a baseball hat at a clothing stall. Just enough to make himself look immediately different.

He ends up outside another bar—or some kind of nightclub, really—and stops for a break, leaning against the wall and doing his best to look unworried. He needs a plan. Or some semblance of a plan. Anything other than mindlessly running through the streets of Denver.

“Okay,” he mutters, tipping his head back against the wall. “Okay. Step one, avoid angry vampire. Step two, get out of town.”

“Where’re you trying to go?” asks another voice. It’s sultry, and low, and coated with amusement, and Clint turns his head to see a woman standing on some concrete steps a few feet away. She’s a couple steps up above him, leaning on a railing next what must be the club’s back door. There’s a lit cigarette dangling from her fingers, the orange glow soft in the relative darkness of the alley.

“Just out of town,” he says warily. “Nowhere special.”

“Mmm.” She takes a drag, blows the smoke up into the air. “Need a lift?”

Alarm bells go off in Clint’s head. “No,” he says. “I’m—I’m good. I’ll figure something out.”

“I’m heading to Vegas,” she says. “Could always use a travel companion.” A slow smile spreads over her face, revealing slightly pointed teeth.

_Succubus_ , Clint thinks, the alarm bells getting louder. “I’m going south,” he lies, and the smile gets a little wider.

She drops the cigarette down to the ground, then hops over the railing in one smooth motion. “You’re pretty,” she says, moving a little closer. “Got those nice blue eyes.” She licks her lips, and it’s both hot as hell and really fucking terrifying. “Smell real pretty, too. Like flowers.” She moves within arms reach, sashaying more than walking. “I like it.”

“Flattered,” he says, backing away. “But I really—”

She moves like lightning, pinning him against the wall in a move reminiscent of Barnes. But she kisses him, instead of choking him. Which is considerably nicer, except for the fact that she’s a fucking succubus, and he needs to get away from her before she kills him—

Clint shoves her off and books it, sprinting down the alley and melting into the crowds again. He doesn’t walk this time, just keeps running, knocking into people right and left. He hears the protests as he pushes through, but he doesn’t stop to apologize. Even if she’s not chasing him, the sudden flood of adrenaline doesn’t leave him room for much else.

He finally stops a few blocks away, bracing himself on his knees and panting. A nearby couple gives him an odd look, but he ignores them, trying to get himself under control. _Okay. Step one, avoid angry vampire. Step two, avoid overly attractive succubus. Step three, get out of town._

He looks around. It’s too crowded here. He needs to get somewhere more secluded, somewhere he can steal a car. Belatedly, he realizes that he’s pretty much back where he ended up. The hotel he ran from isn’t that far from here, maybe a few blocks—

_Get out of sight,_ some little part of him hisses, and Clint ducks into the shadows of a nearby building, tucking himself behind some stacked wooden crates. Just in time, too, because a second later he sees Barnes emerge from the crowd. He looks furious, even more than he did earlier, and Clint grits his teeth and ducks further into the shadows. _Okay. It’s time to get out of Denver._

After a moment, Barnes turns and starts walking the direction Clint came from. Clint watches him go, staying tucked against the crates for a few more minutes, just in case. When he finally comes out, he goes the opposite way, ditching the sweatshirt in exchange for a very nice jacket that he almost feels bad about stealing.

A few streets over things start to get darker. The crowds thin, the busy bars exchanged for more serious businesses. Clint keeps going, moving until the streets are nearly empty. Then he searches until he finds a car. He breaks the window, breathes a sigh of relief when there’s no alarm, and unlocks it. It doesn’t take him long to hot-wire it, and then he’s driving away, grimacing at the cold wind now streaming through the car.

He needs to sleep, he knows. Sleep, and eat, and do various human things. At the very least, he needs to find a bathroom soon. But first, he needs to get the fuck away from here. Needs to put a solid amount of distance between himself and Barnes and any potentially interested succubi.

It takes him five hours to get to Grand Junction. He probably should’ve gone east, but Barnes is expecting him to go that way, and he’d already been driving for an hour before he realized which way he was going.

Barnes didn’t take his money this time, so Clint’s able to get himself a motel room. The sun’s coming up by the time he falls into the bed, and he sleeps for about four hours before dragging himself out of bed and into the breakfast area. He mainlines three cups of coffee, crams a bagel in his mouth, and gets back on the road.

Another four hours later, he finds himself in Salt Lake City, exhausted all to hell and not entirely sure how he got there. He vaguely remembers making the turn for it, but not much else of the drive. Which probably isn’t super safe, but hey—he didn’t crash, and nobody died. All in all, a win.

He stops for more coffee, hits up a sandwich shop, and gets back on the road. He drives the whole damn day, occasionally stopping for food, going west until the distant ocean comes into view through his windshield.

He abandons the car on the side of the road and starts walking. He walks right up to the edge of a cliff, looking out over the ocean below, and feels something in him settle at the sight. The crash of the waves below is soothing, like a steady heartbeat of the world, and Clint can’t help but smile a little. He should’ve come here first, instead of bouncing all around the country. Should’ve known that ten minutes looking at the water would’ve done more than any SHIELD-mandated therapist, or self-imposed vacation.

After a moment’s indecision, he climbs down the cliff face. It’s a little awkward, but he manages it, finding a little niche to sit in about halfway down. He tucks himself into it and dangles his legs, looking out at the water. He’s not sure how he’s going to get out of here, but for the moment, this is where he wants to be. It’s safe, it’s protected, and there’s literally no way Barnes can get to him.

He needs to plan, he knows. Needs to figure out a solid path of action before going back to New York—both in terms of how to get there, and how he’s going to handle talking to the rest of them again. But he’s comfortable here, the sound of the waves luring him into a stupor, and after a few minutes, he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://clintscoffeepot.tumblr.com/). Thank you!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That’s one way of putting it,” Clint says, one hand adjusting his opposite hearing aid. “Look, I love the guy, but he’s done a lot of shit to me over the years. No, I don’t know where he is. Why do you want to talk to him?”
> 
> Natasha sighs. “Because I’m not entirely sure you _are_ human, Clint.”

Extracting himself from the rock in the morning is a vaguely uncomfortable and embarrassing process, but he manages it in the end. He finds another motel—a cheap, seedy place that looks more by-the-hour than a place someone would spend the night. Which is fine for his purposes, and he books a room, making quick use of the shower.

No breakfast, so he goes and buys a bagel from a local place, then takes the change back to the motel and uses the dusty payphone to call Nat. She answers this time, voice tight. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Running,” Clint says. “Remember the very scary vampire chasing me?”

“Right, but I can’t help if I don’t know where you are—”

“I’m in California,” he says. “I booked it here from Denver, and I’m pretty sure I lost him. There’s no way he could’ve followed me.” He gives her a quick run-down of the last few days.

Nat sighs, and that’s when Clint gets the sense of just how worried she’s been. “Okay,” she says, sounding tired. “Tell me where you are. I’m going to come get you myself.”

“San Francisco.” He gives her the name of the motel. “When can you be here?”

“Couple hours,” she says. “There’s no Quinjets available, but I can take a regular plane. Just sit tight. Don’t do _anything_.”

Clint scowls. “I’m a perfectly capable person, Tasha.”

“Hydra is looking for you, Clint. Stay in your room, lock the damn doors, and don’t leave until I get there. Understand?”

“Ugh. Fine.”

“Have you noticed any changes in your body?”

He grins. “Nat, you’re a little late on the puberty talk—“

“Vampire changes, you idiot. Are you sensitive to light? Is your throat burning? Eyes changing color?”

The smile slowly falls off his face. “No,” he says. “I—no, actually. I feel fine.” Which is really fucking odd, to be honest. Everything he’s ever heard about vampire changes says it’s irreversible, and usually happens within twenty-four hours of the initial attempt. And with how much blood he’s drank, and the catalyst, and everything else—he should’ve been a vampire by now. He should’ve been a vampire for the past few days.

“I don’t get it,” he says, rubbing his forehead. “I mean—isn’t that how it works? You get bit—or get the blood or whatever—and then you turn into a vampire.”

“For humans, yes. Non-humans aren’t compatible.”

Clint’s hand tightens around the phone. “But I am human,” he says, a sudden sick feeling churning in his stomach. “I’m—what the fuck else would I be?”

“I have some theories on that,” she says. “But I need to know—do you know where your brother is?”

“ _What?_ ”

“Your brother. Barney.”

“I know his fucking name, Nat. Why the hell do you want to talk to him?”

“Look, I know you two don’t have the best history—”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Clint says, one hand adjusting his opposite hearing aid. “Look, I love the guy, but he’s done a lot of shit to me over the years. No, I don’t know where he is. Why do you want to talk to him?”

Natasha sighs. “Because I’m not entirely sure you _are_ human, Clint.”

The sick feeling gets worse, and there’s a roaring in his ears. “But—” he starts. “I’m—my SHIELD file—”

“It’s been tampered with.”

“What?”

“Subtly, but it has. I had two different techs confirm it.”

“But if I’m not human, then—”

“I don’t _know_ , Clint. That’s why I want to talk to Barney. I need to ask him some questions.”

“About what?”

“You. And your parents.”

“Why can’t you ask me?”

“Because I don’t think you know the answer. Because I’ve met Barney before, and we had a discussion that’s ringing a little strange in my ears now. I need to talk to him, before I can talk to you.”

Clint swears quietly in Russian and rubs his forehead again. “I don’t _know_ where he is, Nat.”

“Yes, I heard you.” She lets out a long breath, then says, “Okay. First priority is you. Sit tight, I’ll be there in five hours. Don’t talk to anyone, lock the doors, and stay out of sight. Am I clear?”

“Crystal,” he says dejectedly.

“Five hours,” she repeats. “Don’t get into trouble.”

A tiny smile crosses his face. “Do I ever?”

“Frequently,” she says, but it’s fond. “See you soon.”

Clint hangs up the phone and goes back into his room. He sits on the bed, fingers tapping on his knee, staring at the blank television.

_I’m not entirely sure you are human, Clint_

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he asks the empty room. “If I’m not—what the hell else am I?”

He runs through the list of supernaturals he knows. He’s obviously not a vampire. Not a werewolf either, or any other kind of were-animal. He’s pretty sure he’s not a banshee. Hellhound is possible, but he’s not missing any chunks of memories, and that’s how Tony said it started with Pepper.

“Could be a kitsune,” he mutters, thinking about the girl he’d met in the circus, the thunder kitsune who’d absolutely stolen his heart—and then most of his possessions. Kyra or whatever. She was cute.

But she’d had that aura around her in pictures, and Clint doesn’t have that. Not that he’s taken a ton of pictures of himself, but he’s been in enough to know that.

“Running out of things,” he says, and flops back on the bed. He’s definitely not a pixie, or a siren, or an incubus, either. He’s not anything that he can think of, and he definitely doesn’t remember his brother being anything either, or his parents—

He stares at the ceiling for a moment longer, and then gets up. Natasha’s warning echoes in his ears, but he ignores it, grabbing his sweatshirt and heading for the door. He can’t sit here and think about this. He’s going to go insane if he does.

“Milkshake,” he decides, ignoring the fact that it’s ten in the morning and a little early for it. “Boozy milkshake. If I gotta sit here and wait, I sure as fuck ain’t gonna do it sober.”

He stops at the front desk and gets a recommendation, then wanders around until he finds the place. It’s not exactly a relaxing walk—despite two states and almost a full day’s worth of travel between them, he’s still half-expecting Barnes to leap out from around the corner and grab him again, maybe pin him against another wall and kiss him—

“Whoa, Barton,” he says, stopping dead in the middle of the street, ignoring the flow of traffic around him. “Whoa—nope. Nope. Not going there.”

He shakes his head firmly. Hot or not, Barnes is actively trying to both kidnap and turn him into a vampire, and Clint is not going to start thinking about him in _that_ capacity.

Not at all.

Not even a tiny little bit. 

Nope.

The milkshake place is open, at least, and he ducks inside. “Hi,” he says to the bored teenager inside. He skims the menu, squinting at the artsy cursive for a moment before giving up. “Uh—got anything with alcohol?”

“We’ve got some stuff with Bailey’s,” the kid says, pointing at the menu. “I’ll have to get my manager if you want that.”

“If ya don’t mind,” Clint says, and the kid nods, heading into the back. A minute later, an older woman comes up front, flashing him a smile.

“Bailey’s Blast?” she asks, and Clint nods. He has no idea what’s in it, but it’s a milkshake and there’s alcohol, which is pretty much all he’s looking for right now. He leans on the counter, watching her add various ingredients. It’s damn fancy, really, and overly expensive, but he knows as soon as he takes the first sip that it’s worth it. He’s never had Bailey’s before, but it’s _good_.

“Thanks,” he says, and wanders out to the back patio, sitting himself in a chair facing the ocean. He stares out at the waves, watching them crash in a hypnotic way against the beach.

Maybe he’s a selkie? He _has_ always loved the water. Anytime a mission will put him close to a beach, he takes it, no matter the danger or the objective. And he’s a good swimmer, too, thanks to Barney teaching him when he was younger, and he’s always been fast in the water. Selkie might actually work.

Except as far as he knows, he doesn’t have the selkie skin. But that might be what Nat wants to talk to Barney about—maybe he had it as a kid or something, and lost it, or somehow got separated from it. He wouldn’t put it past his dad to keep something like that from him.

“Asshole,” he mutters, sipping again. He’s already starting to feel the booze, which is...odd. He’s not an alcoholic, not like his father, but he’s got a decent tolerance to it. And considering that this drink is ninety-five percent milkshake, he really shouldn’t be feeling a damn thing at all.

_Maybe you’re just tired_ , he thinks, rubbing his eyes. He is sleepy—the rock was secure, but it sure as fuck wasn’t comfortable—and considering how hard he’s been running the past few days, his body might just be rebelling against him at the moment.

Well. Doesn’t matter. He’ll finish this, then go back to the motel, crash for a few hours before Nat comes to pick him up. That’ll be nice—

Something shoves the back of his head. Clint barely registers the contact before his forehead is slamming into the table, stars sparking along his vision. “What the fuck—“ he starts, popping back up and twisting to look even as his eyes water from the pain. “Who—”

Barnes is looming over him, glaring down with a furious expression. Clint’s not sure if he looks better or worse than he did in Denver, but it’s still not good. His eyes are almost entirely crimson now, bloodshot and red-rimmed. He’s snarling as well, fangs protruding seemingly without him noticing.

“Ah,” Clint says, holding perfectly still. “Uh—hi?”

“You—” Barnes starts, and then he wavers, knees suddenly wobbling. Clint steadies him on instinct, doing his best to semi-gracefully direct the fall into the nearby chair. Barnes grunts, hands grabbing the armrests as he goes down. He looks like he’s about to pass out, in all honesty, and Clint...isn’t entirely sure what to do about it. It’s not exhaustion this time. It’s something more. He looks like he’s pushed himself one step too far, like he’s being held together with duct tape and chewing gum and he’s about to burst at the seams.

“You look like shit,” Clint says, and Barnes narrows his eyes. It’s terrifying, but Clint stands his ground. Or sits his ground. Whatever. “Seriously.”

“I’m functional,” Barnes says. His voice sounds like hell. “Get up. You’re coming with me.”

“Fuck you, first of all,” Clint says. “Secondly, no. And fourthly—no—C, fuck you again.” He blinks and shakes his head, trying to force his vision to stop...fuzzing. Or doing whatever it’s doing. This is _ridiculous_ , he’s had half a fucking milkshake. How the hell is he already getting this drunk?

Barnes snorts. “Having a little trouble there?”

“You’re one to talk,” Clint snaps, rubbing his eyes. His head still hurts. “The fuck did you slam my head into the table for?”

“You fucking pissed me off,” Barnes growls. “That’s why.”

“You’re the one who fell asleep, buddy. You don’t want someone to escape, don’t sleep on the job. That’s like...Prisoner 101. Didn’t they teach you anything at Hydra?”

Barnes looks even more furious, if possible, and he starts to stand. “Get up, Barton.”

“Nope.” Clint scoots his chair away and sips his milkshake. “Fuck off.”

“Get—” He wobbles again, catching himself on the table. Clint notes with faint interest the way his hand leaves indents in the metal. ”Get the hell up.”

Clint holds out a hand. “Whoa,” he says. “Hey now. You look like you’re gonna fall over, buddy. You need some blood or something?”

“I’m not your buddy.” Barnes shakes his head, like he’s trying to clear it. “I’m the Asset. I’m _functional_. I’m _fine_. I don’t need any—”

“Could get you a Snickers,” Clint says.

Barnes blinks, stares at him. “...why?”

“I dunno. You’re not you when you’re hungry?” He laughs at his own joke, then laughs harder when Barnes just gives him a blank stare in response. “Sorry. That was terrible.”

Barnes scowls. “I don’t need a...Snickers. Or blood. I’m functional. I have to bring you in.” He starts to stand again, then collapses back into the chair.

Clint sips his milkshake and watches. Probably inadvisable to keep drinking, but honestly at this point, he’s pretty sure that this is going to happen no matter how much he fights it. So if he’s gonna be dragged off to Hydra, he might as well not do it sober.

Barnes swears quietly in Russian and buries his face in his hands, looking surprisingly human for a moment. Then he lifts it, looking at Clint. They stare at each other for a few minutes, Clint mindlessly sipping his milkshake the whole time. He’s seriously going to have to ask this lady how much Bailey’s she put into this, it’s getting ridiculous—

A moment later, Barnes rubs his eyes. “I need blood,” he says, voice rough. He darts a look at Clint, eyes wary, almost seeming to cringe away. There’s a haunted look to his face, like he’s afraid Clint will say something, or hit him, or something else. It’s like looking into a mirror, like seeing a window into his past. Suddenly he’s six years old again, staring up at his father, waiting to be punished for some imagined slight—

“Hey,” he says, reaching forward. He clumsily pats at Barnes’ arm, which earns him a confused glance. “It’s cool, man. We can get you something inside. There’s like...” He waves a hand. “I dunno. I usually skip the bloodsucker parts. But they got blood.”

Barnes doesn’t answer. He’s staring at Clint’s arm—at his fingers, specifically, and the tip of his tongue darts out to wet his lips.

“Uh,” Clint says, retracting his hand. “I mean—I’d really rather—no, dude.”

“You smell good,” Barnes says, which is...kinda creepy to hear, honestly. Clint shakes his head and pushes back his chair. Not getting up, just moving away.

“Hard pass, buddy.” He grabs his milkshake, pulling it close to his chest, and keeps sipping at it. Honestly, he could probably get up and walk out. Barnes doesn’t look like he’s in any shape to follow.

Not that Clint’s really in any shape to run, though. His head is absolutely _spinning_. He feels like he’s fifteen again, and drunk for the first time, unsure exactly what’s happening to his body but kind of liking the feeling. He’s very...floaty, he supposes. Very floaty, and happy, and kind of loose.

He says as much to Barnes, who looks confused again. He at least stops staring at Clint’s fingers, although after a moment his gaze slips from Clint’s face to his neck. Which is slightly more alarming than his fingers, in a way.

“Are you drunk?” Barnes finally asks, tearing his crimson eyes from Clint’s pulse. “Drunk on—what even _are_ you drinking?”

“The world’s booziest milkshake,” Clint says, and offers him some.

Barnes looks at it skeptically. “I don’t really—”

“I had your blood in my mouth,” Clint says, shoving it more insistently at him, and Barnes takes it. “I don’t think you have to worry about sharing germs. Drink the damn milkshake. I’ll get you one with blood, I think—”

He stands up as he’s talking, which is kind of a mistake. As soon as he steps forward, he loses his balance, falls forward, and lands right on top of Barnes. Clint’s head connects with the metal arm, the same place he hit it on the table, and the resulting shock of pain makes his vision white out for a second.

Barnes grabs him, stopping him from slipping any further onto the ground. “Easy,” he grunts, tugging Clint upright. He awkwardly pushes him backwards, stretching out and setting him back into the chair. “You good?”

“I’m good,” Clint says, rubbing his forehead. “Your arm fuckin’ hurts, you know that?”

“Sorry?”

There’s a beat of silence where they look at each other. Then Clint starts laughing—a tiny thing at first, but it quickly grows into a full-body laugh. There’s tears streaming from his eyes by the times Barnes raises his voice enough to be heard.

“I don’t see what’s so funny about this.”

“Buddy,” Clint gasps, gesturing to the table. “What’s _not_ funny? You’re supposed to haul my ass to Hydra, but you can’t stand up. I’m supposed to run away from you, but I can’t stand up either. We’re stuck here, unless you get blood or I get un-drunk.” He hiccups a little, then picks up the milkshake to stare into its depths. “The fuck did she _put_ in here?”

He looks up to see Barnes’ face buried in his hands again. His shoulders are shaking, and for a moment, Clint thinks he’s crying. But then he looks up, and Clint realizes he’s laughing too. It’s surprisingly endearing, his laugh, low and rich and something Clint could really listen to forever.

“This is ridiculous,” he finally agrees, and Clint nods, wiping at his eyes.

“It really is,” he says. “I mean—all of it. So fuckin’ stupid. Here.” He shoves the milkshake at Barnes again, nearly falling out of his chair. “Drink.”

Barnes takes it, trying some. He wrinkles his nose and pushes it back. “That’s sweet,” he says, shaking his head. “Too sweet. I don’t like it.”

“You’re boring,” Clint tells him, and finishes the rest. He slams the cup on the table, Thor style, and locks eyes with him. “So. Gonna try and—” he hiccups a little “—bring me in again?”

“I have to,” Barnes says, but there’s no drive to the words. It’s listless. “They’ll punish me.”

“You can’t stand,” Clint points out.

“I noticed, thanks.” Barnes sighs. “Blood. I need—I need it.”

“They have some inside—”

Barnes makes a face. “No. I need...I need what the handlers give me.”

“Don’t you have some?”

“Not anymore. I drank it.” He rubs his forehead. “I wasn’t supposed to be gone this long.” There’s a wry smile on his face. “You should’ve been a quick job. They told me getting you would be easy.”

“Shows what they know,” Clint says, and the smile gets a little bigger. “So what do you need, like a vampire Lunchable or something? Blood juice box?”

Barnes looks confused. “What’s...a Lunchable?”

“Oh, man, they’re _so_ good.” Clint waves a hand. “I’ll show you one later—”

He stops, suddenly, and stares at Barnes. No. No _later_. There can’t be a later. Barnes is here to bring him into Hydra, which is like, twenty-seven levels of bad, and Clint needs to get out of here immediately. He cannot make friends with the occasionally robotic, very hot, metal-armed Hydra vampire. He just can’t.

Barnes stares back, although he’s more looking at Clint’s hand again. There’s a kind of glassiness to his eyes, a vacant look that Clint’s only seen a few times on Natasha. The one that means she’s really in a bad way, and needs blood _stat_.

“What happens if you don’t?” he asks, and Barnes flicks his eyes over. “Get blood.”

“Organs shut down,” Barnes says. “Body starts to fail. I become unconscious. Death within twenty-four hours.”

“Oh.”

Clint should leave, he knows. Should gather up his uncoordinated body and stumble his way out of here. This is a blessing in disguise, really. If Barnes dies, he’ll stop chasing Clint. Give him some breathing room to try and get back into SHIELD, figure out why they want him, figure out how to stop them.

But there’s a look in Barnes’ eyes, a haunted, desperate sense to the way he’s holding himself. Like he’s resigned to this happening, but also like death would be preferable, like it’s better than what’s going on right now.

And Clint _gets_ it, in a way that almost feels painful. He’s been there. He’s looked in the mirror and hated his own reflection more times than he can really count. He knows exactly what that’s like, to consider all the alternatives and think that maybe death really _is_ the better option—

“Hey,” he says, and Barnes looks up, meeting his eyes with the weight of a soul that’s seen too much.

“Yeah,” he rasps quietly.

Clint thinks for a moment, then holds out his wrist. “Here.”

Barnes blinks, eyes moving between him and the outstretched arm. “I don’t—”

“Drink it,” Clint says. “Not like—all of it. But you know. Have a cup or whatever. I dunno how vampires measure shit.”

“I’m—”

“I get it,” Clint interrupts. “Okay? I know.” He gestures to Barnes with his other hand, too tired and too drunk to put it all into words. “You’re—I get it, okay? I’m—I’ve been there. Where you are.”

“You really haven’t,” Barnes mutters, but he’s staring at Clint’s wrist again, and Clint can practically see the drool forming.

“Just have some,” he says. “Whatever shit’s happening to you, we can— _you_ can—figure it out. But you gotta be alive for that.” He shakes his wrist a little. “Drink.”

Barnes bites his lip, then reaches forward. Natasha’s hands are always freezing, and Clint’s pleasantly surprised when Barnes’ touch is warm. He’s gentle about it, too, pushing Clint’s sweatshirt sleeve up and carefully tracing his fingers over the skin. There’s still faint marks from the last time Barnes bit him, and he probes at them before turning Clint’s wrist the other way.

“Are you sure?” he asks, hovering just over the skin.

“I’m sure,” Clint says, heart suddenly beating faster, and he’s not sure if it’s because of the fact that he’s willingly offering this up, or because of the way Barnes is looking at him, or because he’s so goddamn drunk he’s death gripping the table to stay upright.

Barnes nods. “This doesn’t mean anything,” he says. “I’m still bringing you in.”

“You can try,” Clint agrees cheerfully, forcing his vision to focus a little. “I wish you luck.”

Barnes raises an eyebrow, but he leans forward. There’s a little bite of pain—and he snickers at his own pun—and then an...odd sensation. Like sucking, although he supposes that makes sense. He would expect that.

What he _doesn’t_ expect is the sudden rush of heat that flares through him, a rampant wave of arousal that nearly blots everything else out. He just barely manages to bite back the moan that threatens to tear itself from his chest, gritting his teeth and breathing in deeply. “ _Fuck_ —”

“Sorry,” Barnes says, lifting his head a little. His mouth is smeared with blood and it’s _hot_ , why is is that _hot_ —

“It’s fine,” Clint manages, swallowing. “It’s—it’s good.”

Barnes looks amused at that, flashing a dark smile at Clint that does not do any favors for his pants situation. “Good?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, and can only hope that he sounds not as turned on as he feels. Fuck. This— _fuck_. “I mean—it’s fine. Keep going.”

Barnes looks amused again, but he dips his head again, tongue swiping over the gashes, and Clint has to look away before he comes in his pants or something. He doesn’t understand, doesn’t get why he’s reacting this way, he’s given blood to Natasha before and it’s literally _never_ felt like this before—

Then again, he’s never wanted to fuck Natasha either.

...That might have something to do with it.

_No_ , he tells himself firmly. _It’s the Bailey’s. The Bailey’s, and maybe the fact that you haven’t gotten laid in...a while. That’s all. You don’t want to fuck him, you’re just..._

He’s something. That’s all. He doesn’t want Barnes. He _doesn’t_. He _can’t_.

“There,” Barnes says, gently setting his wrist down on the table. His eyes are still crimson, but they’re slowly moving back to blue, a hypnotic swirl of color moving through the irises. “Are you...okay?”

“I’m really drunk,” Clint says honestly, and Barnes just kind of nods before standing up.

“You need—” he starts, then stops, blinking a few times. A confused look crosses his face, and he holds up his right hand up, slowly examining it in the sunlight. Which—

“Aren’t you burning?” Clint asks, suddenly interested. “You’re—Tasha can, like, go out in the sun, but she can’t—she burns easily, why aren’t you—”

“I have the serum,” Barnes says, and then looks annoyed, like he hadn’t meant to say that. “Get up.”

He reaches down to grab Clint, but it’s uncoordinated. Clumsy, almost, in a way that Clint hasn’t seen from Barnes at all. Then he stumbles, catching himself on the table. “I—”

“Are you okay?” Clint asks, reaching up to steady him.

”I’m—“ Barnes stops, shaking his head hard, like he’s trying to clear water from his ears. “My vision is compromised.”

Clint looks at him, then at his wrist, and then at the milkshake. A moment later, he starts laughing. “Oh. Oh, shit.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You—” Clint points at him. “You’re _drunk_.”

Barnes scowls. “I am not.”

“You are!” Clint claps delightedly, laughing again. “You are, you are, because _I’m_ drunk, which means _you’re_ drunk—”

“I can’t get drunk.” He wavers again, looking like he’s about to fall over. “The serum—”

“What serum?”

“The one they gave me—the one before—“ He says _before_ like it should be capitalized, like it carries the weight of a different time. “I can’t get drunk, I don’t burn in the sun, I have more efficient nutritional processing.” He stops, forcibly biting his lip. “What did you do to me?”

“I didn’t do a damn thing,” Clint says. “You drank my blood, buddy. That’s all. Not my fault my blood is mostly Bailey’s.” He looks at his wrist. “Well. Kinda is.”

Barnes glowers at him. “Get up, Barton.”

“Nope.”

“Barton—”

“Dude, if I stand up, I’m gonna fall over.” Clint looks up at him, offers his best innocent expression. “And you’re not much better.”

“I’m fine.” He takes a step forward, which would be much scarier if he wasn’t also wobbling. “I need to—you have to—”

Clint grins. “Ever been drunk before?”

“Of course I have, Stevie and I used to—” He cuts off hard, pain flashing across his face. His hands clenches, like the memory burns his fingertips.

“Who’s Stevie?” Clint asks, curious. Must’ve been someone important, from the crumpled expression on Barnes’ face.

But then Barnes shakes his head and says, “I don’t know,” so there goes that theory. He takes a deep breath, eyes closing, and when they open again, he looks like himself. Like there’s a mask settled over his face, a cold veneer that hides everything underneath. “It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. You need to come with me.”

Clint bites his lip. Barnes is pretty clearly drunk—he’s gonna have to ask Nat about this one, honestly, because he’s never heard of this happening before—but even so, he’s still deadly. Clint would be a moron to try and get away with him so close.

Luckily, being a moron is what he’s best at.

He glances over his shoulder. The ice cream shop is elevated, so there’s a railing behind him. Maybe a seven foot drop to the sand below, and then there’s a little concrete trail he can hop on. Easy enough, although he’s gonna need a plan after that, because—

He sees the opportunity at the same time that Barnes’ hand lands on his shoulder. “Get up,” he growls, and Clint does. As soon as his legs are clear of the chair, he twists away and jumps over the railing.

He _means_ for it to be graceful and cool. He _means_ for it to be badass. What happens instead is that his left foot catches on the railing, and his jump over suddenly turns into an undignified tumble of limbs, ending with him face-down in the sand. If it weren’t for the fact that there was a vampire chasing him, he’d probably lay there for a while. Contemplate his existence, and his life choices, and how he got here in the first place.

But there is a vampire chasing him, so he stumbles drunkenly to his feet and executes Part B of his plan—knocking an oncoming tourist off her little Segway, and jumping on.

“Barton!” he hears, and then a thumping sound that tells him Barnes has jumped the railing after him.

The flaw in his plan becomes apparent the moment he guns the throttle and learns that there is, in fact, no throttle to gun at all.

Because Segways don’t have one.

Because they’re _slow_.

“Rude,” Clint tells it. “So rude.”

“Barton,” Barnes growls, and Clint looks to the left, somehow both surprised and not surprised to see him keeping pace—stumbling a little, but still managing it. “The hell are you doing?”

“Making a grand escape,” Clint says. “Is it working?”

Barnes narrows his eyes. He’s not even breathing hard, which Clint finds distinctly unfair. “Get off the damn scooter.”

“It’s a _Segway_ ,” Clint says. “You’re so uncultured.”

“I don’t care what it is, get the fuck off it.”

“Make me.”

Barnes grabs him, yanking him off the Segway, which keeps rolling along its merry way. “I said get off,” he snaps, and drags Clint over to a nearby building, shoving him against the wall.

It should be terrifying. It should be intimidating. It should make Clint want to run, far and fast. And to some extent, it does. Clint is highly, highly aware of the danger here. Of the fact that if Barnes wanted to, he could tear Clint apart in the space of a few heartbeats.

But his eyes are so blue, and he’s really fucking hot, and Clint just—

He just—

He leans forward, heedless of the way Barnes is shoving him into the wall, and kisses him.

There’s a moment of shock when their lips touch. Real shock, almost, like electricity passing between them. Barnes makes a short noise of surprise, fingers tightening in Clint’s sweatshirt, but he doesn’t pull away. There’s a moment of hesitation on his side, a little intake of breath, and then—

And then he kisses Clint back. It’s heated, dominating in a way that Clint only partially expected. He kisses like it’s the only thing he wants in the moment, pulling Clint flush against him, possessive and fierce and rough.

Then he suddenly lets go, stepping back with a surprised look on his face. “I...” he starts, staring at his hands like they’re foreign to him. “I—you—”

Clint swallows, a little unsure what just happened. “Sorry,” he murmurs, and rubs a hand over his face. He’s drunk. That’s all this is. He’s drunk, and he’s still a little turned on from earlier, and he let it all get the better of him.

A thousand emotions flicker over Barnes’ face. Then he drops his hands and looks up at Clint. “I’m—I should—”

“I’m sorry,” Clint says again, and Barnes just shakes his head. He backs up a couple steps, eyes wild, mouth working like he wants to say something.

After a moment, he shakes his head again. “I—have to go,” he manages, and then turns and runs, leaving Clint standing there stunned.

“Was it _that_ bad?” he calls after Barnes, but there’s no answer, and after a moment, Barnes vanishes around the corner, disappearing from sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://clintscoffeepot.tumblr.com/). Thank you!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Barnes,” he says softly, the first time he’s used the other man’s name. And it must have an impact, because Barnes suddenly stops advancing forward, eyebrows furrowing quizzically.
> 
> “What,” he finally says after a moment, gun still raised.
> 
> “Can we just...” Clint rubs a hand through his hair. “Can we not?”

Five hours after...whatever the fuck _that_ was, Clint finds himself in Santa Barbara, sobering up and walking along the boardwalk again. He probably should’ve stayed in San Francisco. Should’ve gone back to the motel to wait for Natasha. But there’d apparently been a party bus near the ice cream place, and a bunch of drunk bachelorette girls who saw him kiss Barnes, and then witnessed the subsequent aftermath. They’d descended on him like a flock of overly giggly flamingos, and dragged him—mostly willingly—onto their party bus to “have another drink and forget about him, there’s other guys out there!”

He didn’t have the heart or the energy to correct them, and it wasn’t until they were halfway down the coast that he’d realized they even left San Francisco. By which point he was in the _this might as well happen_ phase of being drunk, and he’d figured he’d sort it all out later.

He’s alone now, having managed to ditch them upon arrival into town, although he’s honestly wishing he stuck around for a bit. At least with them, he was having a good time. Now he’s tired, and has a daytime hangover, and he can’t stop thinking about Barnes. About the way he’d tasted, and how he’d kissed Clint back, pressing him against the wall and taking over the whole thing—

“Stop it,” he mutters, glancing at the ocean. “Just—just stop it.”

The sun is setting in his eyes, so he stealthily lifts a pair of sunglasses from a stall as he goes by. They’re ugly, but they do the job. He thinks about taking a phone, too, and calling Natasha. He should, he knows. He should call and explain what happened. Find a place to hunker down here and wait for her. Tell her his selkie theory, see if she’s learned anything else since their phone call.

But he doesn’t. There’s a sense of anticipation building in him, and in a way, he knows there’s no point. Barnes is going to find him again. It’s only a matter of time.

So he keeps walking, aimlessly moving through the streets. No real plan, other than to keep moving.

“Your plans always go to shit, anyway,” he mutters, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Every time.”

The sun sets and the streetlights flip on. Clint glances up, then realizes he’s fucking hungry. He hasn’t eaten in...a long time, really. He should get food.

He turns around, intending to head back to a taco place he’d passed a few streets ago. It had looked cheap and decent. He’ll get a taco, wander a little more, then find some place to spend the night. Call Nat in the morning. Achievable goals.

Clint wanders around a corner, pressing himself to a wall as a group of people walk past him, all laughing and talking excitedly. He watches them go, a hint of wistfulness curling through him. He misses that. Misses the team. Misses the sense of camaraderie.

_They’d take you back_ , he thinks, eyes on the group. _You wouldn’t even have to apologize. They’d never ask for it._

Clint feels like he should, though. Should apologize to the whole lot of them. It was his fault things went wrong, and he—

He stops, the back of his neck suddenly prickling. His eyes scan the street, looking for a particular figure—

And there, on the opposite end of the sidewalk, is Barnes.

They lock eyes, the two of them, like they’re lovers in some kind of romance movie. Except instead of running towards him and sweeping Clint off his feet with a dramatic kiss, Barnes strides down the sidewalk, grabs his arm, and yanks him into an alleyway.

“You’re coming with me,” he says, and his tone is icy cold, as cold as the barrel of the gun that’s now shoved under Clint’s chin. “No more running. No more—”

Clint twists away from his grip, slipping the hold and backing down the alley. “Hey,” he says, both his hands up. “Wait a sex—sec, dammit—”

“I’m tired of waiting,” Barnes says. “You’re coming with me. Now. No more tricks. No more excuses.”

Clint can see a few ways out of this already. Three dangerous, one definitely deadly, one insanely stupid. But he doesn’t take any of them. Instead, he drops his hands, and looks up, meeting Barnes’ eyes.

“Barnes,” he says softly, the first time he’s used the other man’s name. And it must have an impact, because Barnes suddenly stops advancing forward, eyebrows furrowing quizzically.

“What,” he finally says after a moment, gun still raised.

“Can we just...” Clint rubs a hand through his hair. “Can we not?”

Barnes looks confused. “Not what?”

“Not play the game,” Clint says. “Not do this. You quit chasing me, I quit running, and we just...breathe.”

The confusion increases. “You mean...stop?”

“I mean a truce. Twelve hours. You and me, taking a break from...this.” Clint waves a hand around. “Come on. I know you don’t need as much sleep as humans, but you gotta be at least a little bit tired. I know I am.”

There’s silence between them. Clint waits, twitchy and on edge, eyes fixed on the gun. Barnes isn’t going to kill him, but he wouldn’t put it past the guy to shoot him in the leg or something.

“Take a break,” Barnes finally says. “And do what?”

Clint shrugs. “Get dinner?”

Barnes stares at him. “Get dinner,” he echoes, like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard.

“Yeah.” Clint points down the block. “There’s a taco place I was gonna go to.” He tries for a smile. “Wanna come?”

Another long silence. “Twelve hours,” Barnes finally says. He sounds a little shocked, like he can’t believe he’s agreeing to this. “You don’t leave my sight.”

“Sure,” Clint says, breathing a sigh of relief. “Best buddies, whatever.” He tilts his head. “Gun?”

Barnes studies him for a moment longer, then lowers the gun. “Okay,” he says, tucking it into his jacket. “You’re buying.”

“Fair.” Clint tentatively walks towards him, half-expecting Barnes to grab him. He’s both pleased and a tiny bit disappointed when it doesn’t happen. What can he say? Being tossed around like he doesn’t weigh a damn thing is sort of, well...hot. And it’s even better when there’s a little element of danger to it—

He forcibly shoves the thought aside and shakes his head, leading Barnes down the street. “Can you even eat tacos?” he asks. “I mean—that’s a stupid question, I know—”

“I can eat anything,” Barnes says, falling into step beside him. “It just doesn’t provide adequate nutrition. I need blood to be functional.”

“Ah.” Clint hops a chunk of broken sidewalk. “Well. If they don’t have anything, we can stop at a store. Pick you up a vampire Lunchable or whatever.” He shrugs. “Could always drink from me again, if you need.”

Barnes presses his lips together. “I don’t—that would not be wise.”

“I promise I’m not drunk anymore,” Clint says. “All sobered up. I’m never getting a shake from there again. That was insane.” He rubs his chin. “I think she slipped and dumped the whole bottle in or something.”

“I have had blood from people before,” Barnes says. “It’s never—you don’t taste right.”

Clint snorts. “I feel like I should be offended?”

“You don’t taste human,” Barnes clarifies.

A little shiver runs through Clint, Natasha’s words echoing in his ears from the other night. “Oh,” he says. “Uh. Okay.”

“It’s good,” Barnes says, almost sounding like he’s trying to reassure Clint. “I mean—it’s a good taste. But it’s...like sunshine. Or flowers, maybe. I’ve never met a human who tastes like that.”

“I—” Clint’s not really sure what to say to that. “Thank you?”

“You’re welcome,” Barnes says seriously, and Clint can’t help but laugh. “But that brings up the question though—”

“I don’t know the answer,” Clint interrupts, and Barnes tilts his head. “I’m—my friend is working on something for me. She’s a vampire too.” He kicks at a pebble, then says, “Is that why they sent you?”

Barnes shakes his head. “They didn’t tell me why. Just gave me your information and told me to bring you in.” 

Clint sighs. “Maybe they’re after my super secret apple pie recipe.”

“You have—“

“Kidding,” Clint says, and a hint of a smile flashes over Barnes’ face. “No. I don’t know why they’d want me. I’m not good for much. Can ask anyone at SHIELD.” They arrive at the taco place, and Barnes opens the door, gesturing for Clint to walk in first. Which he does, trying to shake off the sudden and vague feeling of going on a first date.

_He’s just keeping you in sight,_ he tells himself. _Twelve hours. You have twelve hours to convince him not to take you in._

That wasn’t meant to be his plan, but apparently that’s how his night’s going to go now. So he behaves himself, keeping in Barnes’ line of sight and letting his hands be visible. Not that he has any weapons on him—not that he _needs_ any weapons—but it’s better to just keep him at ease.

“There’s some vampire stuff,” he says, gesturing over at the “Special Species” section of the menu. “I’m just gonna get a taco—or no, actually. Burrito.”

“This is fine,” Barnes murmurs, going to the fridge and grabbing a bottle of red liquid. “I don’t need very much. My body—”

“Good at processing, yeah. You said.” Clint rubs his nose. “You mentioned a serum?” He orders and pays, then steps back over to Barnes. “What kind of serum? You talking the one like Cap’s got?”

Barnes’ mouth thins, and he shakes his head. “I shouldn’t talk about it.”

“Why not?”

“They wouldn’t like it.”

“Who, the handlers?” Clint gestures around. “They’re not here. Nobody here but us chickens.”

Barnes stares at him for a moment. Then a slow smile curves his mouth, a sparkle of amusement in his eyes. “Excuse me?”

Clint shrugs. “Something my Ma used to say,” he says. “I don’t know what it means. Please don’t ask.”

“Fine,” Barnes says, still smirking a little. Then it fades, a serious look replacing it. “But I shouldn’t. I—they’ll punish me.” There’s a worried look in his eye, as much as he’s trying to hide it, and he glances around, like he expects people to suddenly descend from the ceiling or something.

“Okay,” Clint says soothingly. “Okay. That’s fine. We don’t have to talk about it. We can talk about other things.” He gets his food, then shoves the bottle of blood at Barnes. “There. C’mon, follow me.”

He leads Barnes down to the boardwalk that’s a few streets over, still inexplicably drawn to the beach. Or maybe not inexplicably. How the fuck would he know. Either way, he walks until they get to a cliff overlooking the beach. He plops on the ground, close enough to the edge to make his heart beat faster, and pats the dirt next to him. “Come on. Come sit.”

Barnes hesitantly sits next to him, then pops the top off his bottle with his metal hand. Clint pretends that’s not as weirdly attractive as it is and opens his burrito.

“Can I ask you something?” Barnes says. He sips his blood and makes a face, looking down into the liquid like it’s going to leap out and drown him.

Clint takes a bite. “Sure,” he says through a mouthful of rice. “Oh, fuck, this is so good.”

“Why didn’t you kill me?”

“When?”

“In the motel.”

Clint shrugs. “You were sleeping. Seemed kinda rude.”

“But I was vulnerable.”

“Yeah, and I was in a hurry.” Clint shrugs again. “I dunno, man. I didn’t have any vampire killing shit on me, and even if I did, I wouldn’t have used it. I ain’t that kinda person.”

Barnes looks like he wants to say something else, but after a moment, he just shakes his head and sips from his bottle again. “Alright.”

Clint takes another bite. “Can I ask you something?”

Barnes nods.

“What was the master plan? For Hydra. I mean—let's say you’re able to bring me in—”

“I _am_ going to bring you in, this is just a—”

“Good luck with that. But let’s say for argument’s sake that you do. What’s the next step? I work for the good guys, do they really think that I’m just gonna roll over and say ‘Hail Hydra?’”

Barnes looks at his left hand. He’s wearing a glove, but Clint can faintly hear the whir of the plates as he clenches his fist, the little subtle adjustments of the finely-tuned machine that is his whole arm.

“They would not give you a choice,” he says softly. “To obey.”

“So what, torture and—”

“It’s not torture.” Barnes’ voice is tight. “Or—it is, but not in the sense you’re thinking.” He raises his eyes, looks at Clint. There’s a deep suffering in his gaze, a heavy kind of resignation that seems to weigh on his soul. “They take your memories.”

Clint pauses mid-bite, then lowers the burrito. “What?”

“There is a device. A chair. _The_ Chair.” He closes his eyes, so quick it could almost be a blink if not for the pained expression that accompanies it. “It burns them out. Makes you empty. Makes you...not a person. They take your memories, and your name, and everything that makes you. They take it all, and then replace it with their own ideals.”

“Jesus,” Clint says, suddenly not hungry anymore. “Is that—did they do that to you?”

“Many times,” Barnes murmurs. “I don’t know how many. I don’t remember. I know it scares me, that room. I know I don’t want to go in when they take me.”

Clint looks at the half-eaten burrito in his hands. “How often do they take you?”

“Too often.” Barnes shakes his head. “They—my body, it heals itself. I start to get...memories. Flashes of things.” He looks out at the ocean, voice going distant. “I think I was someone else, before. Not a vampire.”

“I’m sorry,” Clint murmurs. “They’re—I’ve had experiences with Hydra. They’re not good people.”

“No. They’re not.” He sips his bottle again, still watching the waves on the shore. “But they’re all I know.”

The words settle between them, heavier than they should be, and Clint doesn’t know what to say in response to that. _I’m sorry,_ seems heavily inadequate for whatever’s happened to Barnes. Clint can only imagine the depths of Hydra’s depravity. He’s seen the aftermath of some of their experiments. The warehouse in Budapest was the worst, but it wasn’t his first encounter with Hydra’s nastier side.

He imagines a younger Barnes—maybe one a little lighter, a little less world-weary. Human, and happy, walking down the street without a care in the world. Getting picked up by Hydra, turned into a vampire, shattered and broken over and over until he became _this_.

The thought of it makes his heart hurt. Makes him furious, too, a little bubble of anger and hatred swelling up in him. He’s _been_ in that position—he’s _been_ used, and broken in his own way, and he knows what it’s like and it’s not fucking fair—

“Are you alright?” Barnes asks quietly, and Clint suddenly realizes that he’s gritting his teeth, knuckles white around his napkin. He forces himself to let go, set the burrito down in its styrofoam container before he pops it open.

“I’m fine,” he says after a moment. “I’m just...mad.”

Barnes looks confused. “Why?”

“Because it’s not fair,” Clint says, and the confusion increases. “Because you’re a person, and I’m totally of the opinion that shit things happen, but this _didn’t have to_. And that’s unfair.”

“Life’s not fair,” Barnes murmurs, setting his bottle on the ground.

Clint shakes his head. “Doesn’t mean you have to sit there and take it.”

“But they’re all I know,” Barnes says again, the words soft and pleading.

Clint bites his lip, studying him for a moment. Then he says, “They don’t have to be.”

Barnes stares at him like he’s been punched in the gut. Clint winces, half-wanting to take the words back. But he can’t, and after a moment, he decides he doesn’t want to anyway. He means it. Scary vampire or not, Barnes is just a guy who found himself lost in the Hydra machine, and Clint’s not going to leave him to it if he can help it.

“I don’t understand,” Barnes finally says.

“I mean—” Clint rubs a hand through his hair, unsure how to phrase it. “I mean like that first night, when I said my friends would help? I still mean that. We can help. I can get you into SHIELD or talk with the Avengers—”

“SHIELD won’t take me,” Barnes says. “I—Barton, if I go to SHIELD, they’ll put me in a cell and leave me there for years. I know who I am. I know what I’ve done.” 

“I wouldn’t let them,” Clint says immediately. “I wouldn’t. And you’d be surprised, anyway. We’ve worked with some questionable people—human and otherwise. I still have scars from the werewolf in Budapest. You wouldn’t even be near the top of that list.” He gestures to himself. “Look at me, man. I’m mostly deaf, and pretty stupid, and definitely reckless, and they keep me around. Help me fix my mistakes, figure out how to not make them again. They gave me a team, and a family, and a life—I think they’d welcome you too.”

He’s not actually real positive on that point, but he’s not going to let Barnes know that. This is already precarious ground he’s walking on. “It’s worth a shot,” he adds. “I’m just saying. If you wanted to try.”

Barnes’ expression is unreadable in the faint glow of the distant streetlights. Clint holds his gaze anyway, trying to bleed sincerity through his body language. He means this, every damn word, and he wants Barnes to know it.

“You think so?” Barnes asks softly, and Clint fights the urge to cheer.

“I think it’s worth a shot,” he says again. “I’ll vouch for you, for whatever that’s worth. And I wouldn’t take you to SHIELD. Not at first. We’d go to the Avengers. I bet once we explain what happened—that Hydra’s got you against your will—Steve would be on our side. He’s all self-righteous and shit. And then—”

“Steve Rogers,” Barnes interrupts, a questioning tilt to his head. When Clint nods, he blinks, rubbing his forehead like he’s got a headache. “I’ve met him.”

“Really?” Clint shrugs. “He never mentioned it.”

“No—before. I think. I saw video footage of him in Manhattan, and it...” He gestures to his head. “Broke something. Up here. I wasn’t supposed to recognize him. Now they can’t get him out.”

Clint frowns. It’s not entirely impossible. Vampires live a long, long time. Barnes doesn’t look that old, but neither does Natasha, and he’s pretty sure she’s got a couple decades on him. “Maybe,” he says. “If you come with me, we can ask him. Maybe he remembers you.”

Barnes looks out at the ocean again. He’s quiet for a long time, long enough that Clint goes back to eating his burrito so he can occupy his hands. He’s never been any good at long silences, but this one is important. Either Barnes says yes, and comes with Clint, or he says no, and they start the game all over again. And as much as Clint likes playing cat-and-mouse with him, he’s starting to get tired of it. He’s ready for it to be over.

“Okay,” Barnes says softly, and it’s so unassuming that it takes Clint a moment to realize this is the agreement he’s been waiting for.

“Okay?” He can’t stop the smile from spreading over his face.

“Okay.” Barnes looks at him. “I’ll go with you. If you think you can help.”

“I can try,” Clint says. “I can’t promise anything. But if you come with me, I won’t let Hydra take you without a damn good fight.”

“I believe you,” Barnes says, and he honestly looks like he does.

Clint jams the rest of the burrito in his mouth. “Do you have a phone?”

Surprisingly, Barnes nods. “Burner phone,” he says, pulling it out of his jacket. “They gave me one, but I...lost it. Earlier. After the—” He stops, and even in the dim light, Clint can tell there’s a flush creeping up his face. “You know.”

“I’m sorry,” Clint says. “I didn’t—it’s not an excuse, but I was _really_ fucking drunk.” He holds out his hand. “Can I borrow the phone?”

Barnes hands it to him, and he dials Natasha again. “Hi,” he says when she picks up. “It’s me.”

“Clinton Francis Barton, where the _fuck_ are you?”

Clint winces. “Don’t middle name me, woman. That’s just...wrong.”

“I’m going to _kill_ you,” she growls. “Middle names are gonna be the least of your damn worries. You tell me a vampire’s chasing you, you promise to stay put, and then I find out from the hotel clerk that you were asking about milkshake places? Are you kidding me? Was that _really_ important in the moment?”

Clint winces again. “I—”

“I am unbelievably pissed at you,” she snaps. “And about two seconds from sending you to find your own damn way home.”

“I made friends with him,” Clint interrupts, because he knows from experience that when Natasha’s in a tirade, the only way to dissuade her is to head her off at the pass. “The vampire.”

There’s dead silence on the other end of the phone. Then, in Natasha’s special blend of exasperation and _you-fucking-idiot_ she says, “You made _friends_ with him?”

“Yeah.” Clint looks at Bucky. “I’m gonna bring him in with me. Help him get away from Hydra.”

“Clint—” She stops, forcibly cutting off her next words. “Fine. Where are you?”

“We’re in Santa Barbara,” Clint says. “I had a burrito, and he had some blood, and now we’re gonna go find a place to stay. You’ve got an apartment here, right?”

“If you break into my apartment, I will murder you. Go get a hotel.”

“Okay, okay.” He sighs. “Did you solve the question?”

“What question?”

“What am I?”

He can tell she’s still mad, but there’s a hint of laughter to her voice when she answers. “I ask myself that every damn day, Barton.”

“Ha ha, Tasha. I mean it. Do you know what I am?”

“I have suspicions,” she says. “I need to see you in person. Confirm something.”

“Can you give me a hint?”

“Nope.”

“Is this payback?”

“You think I’m that petty?”

“Yes.”

She laughs, the sound of it easing the tension in Clint’s chest. “I’m not going to tell you,” she says, “because I want to be sure. That’s all. I’m not giving you wild theories to play with.”

“Fair,” Clint says. “Am I a selkie?”

“No. That I’m sure of.”

Clint frowns and rubs his forehead. “Okay. Fine.” He glances out at the ocean, then sighs. “When will you be here?”

“Think you’ll be okay until morning?”

Clint looks at Barnes, who shrugs. “Not planning anything.”

He probably shouldn’t believe that, but he does. “Yeah. We’ll be okay.”

“Okay. Find somewhere to stay. I’ll be in Santa Barbara in the morning.” Her voice gets quieter. “Please stay put this time?”

Clint nods. “I’m not planning on going anywhere,” he says. “I promise. We’ll hunker down and wait for your signal.”

“Keep this phone,” she says. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

“Promise,” he says again, and she hangs up, the line going dead in his ear. Clint snaps the phone shut, tucking it into his own pocket. “She wants us to find a hotel.”

“You say that like you disagree,” Barnes says.

Clint grins. “Course I do. She’s got an apartment here. Why pay for a hotel?”

“She’s going to kill you.”

“Nah.” Clint waves a hand. “She’s probably expecting it. Five bucks says she shows up there tomorrow without calling.”

Barnes smirks a little bit, and it looks damn good on him. Clint lets his eyes roam, checking out the rest of him. He’s still just as good looking as he was that first night, and Clint still kinda has a thing for him, honestly.

Barnes raises an eyebrow. “See something you like?”

“Absolutely,” Clint says, and throws caution to the wind. He leans forward, closing the small distance between them, and kisses him. He keeps it soft, more exploratory than anything, and pulls back after a moment.

Barnes is staring at him, eyes wide. They’re so blue now, no hint of red at all, and they’re so fucking pretty that Clint doesn’t really even know what to do with himself.

“That—” he says after a moment, voice rough. “I don’t—why did you do that?” 

Clint shrugs. “Been wanting to since I saw you in the bar,” he says. “I told you, small talk’s not my thing.”

A tiny smile curves Barnes’ mouth. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Clint shrugs again. “Wanna go?”

“Go?”

“To the apartment.” Clint hesitates, then adds, “To bed. Specifically.”

Barnes seems wary, shifting a little bit where he sits.

“We don’t have to,” Clint adds. “I mean—if you want to just hang out and watch TV or sleep or something, that’s cool. But I’m—if you want—”

“No,” Barnes says, and for a moment Clint’s heart sinks. But then he’s following it up with, “Not TV. I want—with you—if that’s what you want—”

“I’d love that,” Clint assures him, a low heat unfurling in his gut. “God, yes. I want that so much.” He gets up, pulling Barnes up to his feet. “I’m serious, man. You can even bite me again if you want, that was so fucking hot—” He stops, a red flush spreading over his face. “Ah. Well. I...did not mean to say that.”

Barnes snickers. “I saw your face, Barton. I know.”

“Don’t get smug,” Clint mutters, leading the way down the boardwalk. He’s only been to Natasha’s apartment once, but he has a vague recollection of where it is. “It’s not attractive.”

“ _Sure_ it’s not,” Barnes drawls, a smirk and a hint of sarcasm leaking through. It’s _absolutely_ attractive, and Clint is not entirely responsible for the little noise that he makes. He’s very quickly losing control of this situation, and honestly? He doesn’t even mind that much.

They find Natasha’s apartment, a cute little thing not far from the oceanfront. Clint breaks in, silencing the alarm on his second guess before opening the door for Barnes. “Here. Shoes off, she’ll kill me if we track mud in here. She loves this place.”

Barnes obliges, kicking off his boots and putting them neatly by the door. It’s kind of cute, and Clint can’t help but snicker. “So domestic.”

“You asked,” Barnes points out, and walks past Clint, moving into the kitchen. “This is nice.”

“Yeah, she comes out here every few months. She likes California.” Clint takes off his sweatshirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it onto the couch. “You want anything? Beer? Blood?”

Barnes is watching him, a heat in his gaze that wasn’t there a moment ago. “No,” he says quietly, and moves a little closer. Clint swallows, his mouth suddenly going dry, and steps backwards on instinct.

Barnes freezes, a sudden tension entering his body. “I—” he starts softly, and Clint realizes his mistake a heartbeat later.

“I’m not scared,” he says, which is mostly true. “I mean—you’re _scary_ , but I’m not scared. Not right now.” He moves forward, closing the distance between them, and settles his hand on Barnes’ waist. Then he slowly turns them, until his own back is pressed against the counter. “I like this. That’s what I was going for.”

“Oh.” Barnes moves closer, pressing himself against Clint. “Like that?”

“Yeah.” There’s a warm feeling moving through him, and he looks down at Barnes, their height difference even more noticeable this close. “Dunno why.”

“Mm.” Barnes smirks a little. “I’m going to kiss you now.” 

“Please,” Clint says, and that’s all he has time for before Barnes is pulling him down into a kiss, heated and possessive. It’s perfect, and Clint can’t help the little thrill that runs down his spine. This is still dangerous, all things considered. Barnes is still a vampire, and he’s still Hydra-adjacent, and they’re still both playing with fire. But it’s the best he’s felt since that mission went wrong and he started this whole little journey of self-discovery.

Barnes pulls back after a moment, breathing faster. “Bed,” he murmurs, and Clint nods frantically.

“Bed,” he agrees, stumbling a little as Barnes tugs him out of the kitchen. “Down the hall—second door—”

“Will your friend be mad?”

“Please don’t bring up Natasha when we’re about to get naked,” Clint says, and Barnes laughs.

“Fair point,” he says, kicking the door open. They tumble onto the bed, both of them grinning at each other. Clint pauses where he’s perched on top of Barnes, hands splayed over his chest, and takes in the sight for a moment. It’s a good view, all things considered. The glint in Barnes’ eye, the way he’s looking up at Clint, the way the bright moonlight spills across his face and outlines the curve of his jaw. He doesn’t know what tomorrow’s going to bring, has no idea what the next step will be, but he doesn’t really care. He has this _now_ , and he’s going to enjoy every damn second of it.

“What’re you thinking about?” Barnes murmurs, hand coming up to thumb over Clint’s lower lip. Clint bites at it, and Barnes chuckles. “Hey. That's my move.”

“I can bite too,” Clint says. “Just has less power behind it.”

“Uh-huh,” Barnes says, and then the world shifts as he flips them over, reversing their positions. He straddles Clint, unexpectedly heavy, and pins his wrists by his head. “Let me show you how it’s done, yeah?”

“God, yes,” Clint says, and Barnes flashes him a dark grin before leaning down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://clintscoffeepot.tumblr.com/). Thank you!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’re not talking about shit,” Rumlow says. “I’m securing you, and then I got better things to do. The lab boys are gonna come check you out.” He smirks. “They were real interested in you. I kinda wonder what’s gonna be left by the time they’re through.”
> 
> Clint’s blood goes cold, Natasha’s words ringing in his ears. “Why?”
> 
> “Because you’re unique,” Rumlow says, leaning down to grab his leg. “And unique is always valuable.”

“I think I’m dead,” Clint says to the ceiling, when he feels like he can talk again. “Am I dead? Is this what death is like?”

“No,” Barnes says, and there’s a quiet certainty to his voice that’s vaguely alarming. But then he’s turning, rolling on top of Clint and smirking down at him. “I’m flattered, though.”

“Oh, shut up,” Clint shoves ineffectively at him. “I can’t do more, man. I got nothing left. You sure you ain’t a succubus?”

“Pretty sure,” Barnes says dryly. His fingers trail over bite marks and bruises scattered across Clint’s skin, each one flashing with a memory as he brushes it. Clint sucks in a breath as his dick valiantly tries to restart things. “You look good in these.”

“Fucking vampire,” Clint mutters, and Barnes snickers before leaning down and dragging his tongue over a particularly purple bruise. Clint whimpers, jolting up a little before he’s pinned down again. “I’m serious, Barnes, I fucking can’t—”

“Alright,” Barnes says, relenting, and he rolls off Clint, looking supremely satisfied with himself.

Clint stretches. “I think we owe Natasha a new bed.” 

“New sheets at the least,” Barnes agrees.

“At the least.” Clint rolls up, sitting at the edge of the bed, wincing at how sore he is. “Wow. Okay. I’m getting water, you want anything?”

“I don’t drink water.”

“Nat’s a vampire, five bucks says she’s got the good stuff stashed.”

Barnes shrugs, drawing Clint’s eye back to his metal arm. It’s unreasonably attractive, now that he’s seen the whole thing. He’d spent a solid five minutes last night just examining it, kissing the scarred mess of Barnes’ left shoulder, admiring the engineering of the whole thing before demanding Barnes fuck him with it.

He brushes off the memory, lest he get...distracted, and gets up, stretching again. His back makes a disgusting cracking noise and Barnes makes a face. “Gross.”

“I’m getting old,” Clint says mournfully, and Barnes laughs before throwing a pillow at him. Clint catches it, chucks it back, then ducks out into the hallway.

He gets blood for Barnes anyway—Nat does have the good stuff in the fridge, some kind of nyad blood that’s supposed to taste like the ocean, according to the can—and a glass of water for himself before going back into the room. “We should probably make a plan,” he says, handing the can to Barnes. “For going back. And then sleep after that.”

Barnes takes it, sitting up. “We should, yes.” He brushes his hair off his face and takes a sip. “Actually—can I ask you something personal?”

“You had your tongue in my ass,” Clint says. “I think we’re well past being concerned about personal things now.”

Barnes actually blushes at that, a red flush creeping up his face. “It’s about SHIELD,” he says.

“What about it?”

“What happened on your last mission?”

The words ring in Clint’s ears, and he stares into his water glass, a sinking feeling churning in his stomach. He forces his hand to keep holding it, forces himself to stay in the moment and not sink into a memory.

“Does it matter?” he asks quietly. “I mean—that’s not going to affect you. Or me bringing you in.”

“It doesn’t,” Barnes admits. “But I was curious. Hydra’s had their eye on you for a while, but getting you was always a bigger risk than they were willing to take. But then suddenly you were traveling alone, and you were more vulnerable, so they sent me the okay. I just...wanted to know why. What made you leave them.” He turns the can in his metal hand.

There’s something to the quiet way he speaks, and the way he gives Clint room to answer—not forcing it, just leaving it open-ended. It’s enticing, and when Clint opens his mouth, he finds all the details just slipping out of him.

“It was supposed to be a rescue mission,” he says. “It—we were in Dubai, picking up some hostages for SHIELD. It should’ve been a quick mission. In-and-out, snatch and grab kind of thing. The kind we could do in our sleep. And they made us take a team of other agents. C.I.A., mostly. For more backup, to increase the odds.”

Barnes nods. “Working with new people?”

“They weren’t even _new_ ,” Clint says. “We’ve worked with them before. They’re—” he closes his eyes for a moment “—they _were_ a talented group.”

“Were,” Barnes echoes, and Clint nods. He closes his eyes for a brief moment against the gunshots echoing in his ears, the faint screams—

“So we’re going into the house,” he says. “It’s my job to clear the area. Always is. I go in first, I get up high. I call out patterns. I point out traps. I take out guards.” He rubs his thumb over the condensation forming on the glass. “I’m _good_ at it,” he says after a moment, needing Barnes to understand that. To hear that he’s competent, at least to some degree.

“I know you are,” Barnes murmurs. “I watched you, remember?”

“So—” Clint swallows, knuckles tightening on the grass. “This time—I made a stupid mistake. There was an ambush set up. I should’ve seen it. I didn’t. I let myself get distracted.” He swallows again, and says, “They went in first. They were supposed to clear the building, then the Avengers would do the actual extraction.”

His breath hitches a little bit, and he realizes his vision is blurring. He hasn’t talked to anyone about this since it happened. Nat had tried, but he’d shot her down, leaving almost immediately after the mission, flying commercial back and ending up in Chicago. Nick Fury had sent a team after him there, and they’d attempted to bring him in for a forcible debrief. It hadn’t gone well.

Barnes puts a hand on his knee. “Barton,” he says softly. “You don’t have to.”

Clint shakes his head. He couldn’t stop now even if he wanted to. “They went in. Barely made it twenty feet onto the property before the ambush started. It—” He stops, the words seeming to catch in his throat.

“It was quick,” he manages after a moment. “I mean—that’s all I can say for it. It was quick. They probably didn’t even know what hit them.” A tiny, hysterical laugh escapes him. “ _I_ don’t even know what hit them. One moment they were there, and the next moment they were just...dead.”

“I’m sorry,” Barnes murmurs.

“Yeah.” Clint scrubs at his face with one hand. “Well. That’s it, pretty much. Nat and Steve and I went in, got the hostages. It was bloody. One of them was wounded. I don’t know if they made it or not.” He clears his throat. “So. That’s what happened. It was my fault, all of it.”

“It wasn’t—”

“It _was_ ,” Clint says. “Please don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Minimize it.” He looks over at Barnes. “I fucked up. Me. It’s my fault. I know it’s my fault.”

Barnes is quiet for a moment, then nods. “I’m sorry,” he says. “That it happened.”

“Everybody’s fuckin’ sorry,” Clint mutters, tucking his knees into his chest. “But that’s what happened. I took off, because that’s what I do—make messes and leave them for other people.” He wraps his arms around himself, suddenly feeling cold. “So I’ve been fucking around for a few weeks, trying to sort my head out. And then you found me.”

“You thought I was coming for you,” Barnes says. “The first night.”

Clint nods. “Figured Fury had sent you. He’d tried, in Chicago. To bring me in. I didn’t let them.”

“Ah. I thought you made me.”

“I mean, I did. Kind of.” A tiny smile crosses his face. “You suck at blending in.”

“Wasn’t trying to. I wanted you to notice me.” He sighs. “Needed you to follow me.”

“Guess it worked.” Clint rests his forehead against his knees, wanting to hide for a moment.

Barnes’ hand settles on his arm, gently moving in small circles. It’s...oddly soothing, for what it’s worth, and Clint relaxes into the touch after a moment, unfolding from his little ball.

“How about you?” he asks. “You know anything about how you got wrapped up with Hydra? Or did they take it all?”

“They took it,” Barnes says softly. “I—I have flashes of memory, but most of them are...unreliable. I was serious, when I said they’re all I know.” He frowns, looking down at his metal hand. “I think it’s been a long time, though. I know they used to freeze me. They told me that.”

Clint blinks. “What?”

“In between missions.” Barnes shrugs, like this is no big deal. “Cryofreeze. Keep me from becoming unstable. I don’t think they’ve done it since the bite, but I might be wrong.” His voice gets softer. “I think I remember being human. Having two arms.”

“I’m sorry,” Clint murmurs, and Barnes shrugs again. “That’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair,” Barnes says.

“No, it’s not.” Clint stares out the window for a moment, then shakes himself. “Anyway. Well. I’m glad you’re coming with me.”

“My—” Barnes stops suddenly, sitting up with a concerned expression.

Clint tenses. “What’s wrong?”

“Get dressed,” Barnes says, getting up. “Someone’s coming.”

“It’s probably just Nat—”

“Too many footsteps.” He’s already pulling on his pants, reaching for his guns. Clint follows suit, good feelings fading away as he dresses. Nat keeps weapons for him too, and it’s only a moment before he’s got a bow in his hands, arrow nocked and ready.

“Where?” he asks, and Barnes points to the front door. Clint pulls back on the bow, a little sense of rightness settling in him even as his senses go on high alert. This is where he belongs, what he’s supposed to be doing. Facing threats with a bow in his hand, ready to put an arrow in someone. _From me, to you, with love and kisses._

Barnes is tense, muscles almost rigid as he watches the door. “They—” He cuts off, looking over at Clint. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Clint has time to ask, and then the door’s bursting open, a swarm of people pouring in.

It’s Hydra. He doesn’t know how the fuck they found them, but he recognizes the squid-looking logo, and the general sense of evil that accompanies them as they attack. Clint doesn’t have time to think. His body moves without conscious permission, calculating angles and distances, even as he dives to the floor. They’re wearing body armor, so he aims for the open spots, the flashes of vulnerability as they move.

There’s gunfire next to him, loud and terrible, and he glances over to see Barnes fighting alongside him. There’s a cold look on his face, a determined set to his mouth as he fires with impunity. He’s _almost_ as good as Clint is, really, and Clint kinda wants to take him out to a course, maybe do a proper contest—

Someone punches him in the face, derailing that train of thought. Clint swings the bow like a staff as he stumbles backwards, whacking his assailant on the head. They’re wearing a mask, but there’s something so _familiar_ about the way they’re fighting him, like they know Clint’s moves well enough to counter almost before he makes them.

He ducks a punch, then takes another one in his gut, which sends him down to his knees as he wheezes. “Stay the fuck down,” his attacker orders, voice rough and gravelly, and Clint starts to growl something back when he _recognizes_ it—

“Rumlow?” he asks, eyes widening as he looks up. But that’s not _right_ , it can’t be right, Rumlow is one of the good guys, he works for SHIELD, not Hydra—

“Long time no see,” says the voice, and then the mask is coming off to reveal Rumlow’s face, grinning and bloodied. He snaps a fist forward, and Clint is too stunned to do anything but take it. He hears more than feels his nose break, the gush of blood pouring down his face.

“Should’ve known,” he grits out as they yank his hands behind his back, roughly zip tying them together. They put three on, which honestly is just overkill. And alarming, because he can’t break out of three. One, definitely. Two...maybe. Three means he’s stuck.

“Get up,” Rumlow growls, yanking him to his feet. “Fucking bastard. Been having a shit week because of you, you know that?” He shoves Clint onto the couch. “Been chasing you for ten fucking days, you and Terminator over there.” He looks over at Barnes, who’s standing in the middle of a group of Hydra agents, all with guns raised. Barnes isn’t making any move to get to him, but his eyes are locked on Clint, a hint of worry behind the carefully blank expression.

“No one said you had to follow me,” Clint says, looking up at Rumlow. “You always been a double agent, or did Hydra just start offering better healthcare?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Rumlow growls. “Christ, you talk so goddamn much.” He pulls out a radio. “We got him. Got both of them. Get the vehicle ready.”

“I’m serious,” Clint says, because if Rumlow’s a double agent, that opens the door for a whole host of other things that Clint doesn’t really want to think about—

Rumlow produces duct tape out of fucking _nowhere_ , and slaps a strip of it over Clint’s mouth. “I said shut up,” he says, and turns as another person in tactical gear comes up to him. Clint stares, recognizing the long hair and the bright green eyes of another STRIKE colleague. There’s a sinking feeling in his stomach, a ringing in his ears, and he can’t even make himself follow the conversation as they exchange quick words.

He realizes after a moment that with his mouth taped shut, and his nose broken, he can’t actually _breathe_ , which is kind of a concern. After a moment of worry, he forces himself to shift his weight, kicking Rumlow in the leg. _Take the tape off, you goddamn—_

Rumlow whips around, eyes flaring with fury. “You little fucker—” He reaches down, fists his hand in Clint’s shirt and pulls up upright, other hand rearing back.

“He can’t breathe,” says another voice, loud enough to be heard above the general noise level.

The whole room seems to freeze, everyone turning as one to Rumlow, almost as if to gauge his reaction. After a moment of stunned silence, he curls his mouth into a sneer. “Got something to say, leech?”

“He can’t breathe,” Barnes says, voice calm. Clint might be imagining the undercurrent of fear. “You broke his nose.”

Rumlow looks down at Clint, who stares up at him. He’s trying very hard not to panic and use up the rest of his oxygen, but darkness is starting to creep in at the edges of his vision—

“Christ,” Rumlow mutters, and reaches down, ripping off the tape in one smooth motion. It hurts like a _bitch_ , but Clint barely even notices as he sucks in air, enough to make himself start coughing. “Get him out to the car. If he talks, shoot him.”

Clint’s first instinct is, of course, to start running his mouth. But as he opens it to do so, Barnes catches his eye and subtly shakes his head. A quick motion, a blink-and-you-miss-it kind of thing. Clint focuses on breathing instead, trying to calm his racing heart. He doesn’t protest as they haul him up to his feet again, dragging him out to a waiting panel van.

They shove him on a bench in the back, and Clint has two seconds to be grateful it’s not the trunk before people are climbing in after him, squashing him against the side of the car. Someone jams a gun in his ribs, pushing it uncomfortably against a bruise Barnes had left on him. “If you move, I’ll fucking shoot you.”

“The fuck you think I’m gonna go?” Clint asks, but they don’t hear him—or if they do, they don’t comment. He looks out the window, watches as they bring Barnes out and shove him in a different car. He at least gets to walk under his own power, although his hands are also locked together in some giant mag-cuff things. It looks uncomfortable, and Clint winces for him. 

“Drive,” Rumlow says, getting in the middle row. The engine turns over, and he twists to look at Clint. “You look like shit.”

“You punched me in the face,” Clint reminds him, words thick. Blood is still dripping down his face, landing on his pants. He probably does look like shit, but Rumlow’s an asshole for pointing it out. “So. Fuck you.”

“You deserved it,” Rumlow growls. “Oughta do it again. Goddamn little shit.”

Clint’s heard those words before—from him, usually—but they’re typically more admiring. More friendly. More “you just made that shot and it was awesome” as opposed to “I fucking hate your guts.” It’s a weird mental shift, looking at someone he just did a mission with not that long ago and realizing that apparently they were a bad guy wearing a good guy mask all along.

“Scooby-Doo bullshit,” Clint mutters, and Rumlow raises an eyebrow. Clint shakes his head, glances out the window. He should probably keep track of where they’re going, but he doesn’t know Santa Barbara well enough for it to make any difference. So he refocuses on the car instead, counting people and making note of weapons.

“Why?” he asks quietly, one of the agents holding his bow. He’s not sure why they brought it, but all the better for him if he gets his hands free. “What does Hydra want with me?”

“That’s above my pay grade,” Rumlow says. “And honestly, hell if I know. I told them you weren’t fucking worth the trouble.” He flashes a cruel grin, silver eyes cold. “But they said bring you, so we’re bringing you.”

“Bringing me where?” Rumlow’s mouth thins, and Clint has enough self-preservation to recognize he’s on thin ice here. Not enough to keep him from asking again, though. “Just want an address so I can call in the airstrike.”

Rumlow digs in his pocket, pulling out a capped syringe. “Shut him up,” he says, tossing it to the guy still grinding a gun into his ribs.

“No, don’t—” Clint starts, shifting away. “I’ll shut up, I swear, _don’t_ —” He can’t be drugged, he needs to stay lucid, needs to—

There’s a prick of the needle in his neck, and then things get hazy after that. He’s not really asleep, but he’s too out of it to do anything, slumping uncomfortably against the side of the van as it rolls down the road. There’s a low hum of conversation around him, and it takes an effort for him to tune in and pick out words. Something about faeries, he thinks. Weird conversation to be having right now, but it’s sort of amusing to watch Rumlow say the word. It’s too light for his mouth, Clint thinks. Too airy. Which also rhymes, if he thinks about it, and that’s funny too.

A hysterical giggle slips from him, and he immediately flushes red. Rumlow just tosses him a dark look before talking again. “...some blood first,” he’s saying, words sounding like they’re far away. “Stick him in a cell, let the labs know so they can get a piece. We can call Pierce when they’re done.”

Clint’s not sure what that means, but he doesn’t really have the capacity to wonder. Time stretches around him, loose and languid. He has no idea how long it is—he thinks it’s a long time—before the car stops, and he’s dragged out—literally, because his legs won’t fucking cooperate. They’re at some kind of old hospital, he thinks, squinting through blurry vision at an industrial-looking building. He’s hauled inside, into a grimy foyer that’s seen better days, and taken over to a set of elevators that are also a little past their prime. The whole place kind of looks gruesome, really, all dusty and dirty like a horror video game setup.

“People have died here,” he says to whoever’s holding him. “Five bucks says it’s haunted.”

Or at least, that’s why he tries to say. It comes out as a slur of syllables, and Rumlow just laughs as he steps into the elevator ahead of Clint. “Don’t talk,” he says, hitting a button. “Just let this happen.”

Clint blinks at him, legs slipping a little on the floor. The ride down is short, only a few floors, and the doors open with a deceptively friendly ding to reveal another haunted hallway. The lights are dim and flickering, eerily glowing bare bulbs dangling every ten feet or so. There’s an abandoned, broken wheelchair just chilling out in the middle of the space, one wheel settled next to it on the gritty dirt floor. And the whole place is damp, with a gross, wet taste to the air that settles in the back of Clint’s throat almost immediately.

Basically, it’s a murder hallway. People have _definitely_ died here.

“No,” he says, shaking his head, because nobody in their right mind wants to go down the murder hallway. He’s already sure that this isn’t going to end well for him, and the fact that he’s drugged and tied up just adds to the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. “No!”

“Stop whining,” Rumlow says, and he grabs Clint, helping the other soldiers pull him down the hallway. “We’re being nice, you know. You’re at least going to survive.”

They pass a room with an open door, and Clint twists to look. It looks like the world’s least sanitary hospital, with at least three or four beds that he can see. He has time to make out what looks like a dwarf and a siren before they’re shoving him past it.

“What is this?” he asks, not really expecting an answer.

The words still come out garbled, anyway, but surprisingly, Rumlow does seem to understand the gist of them. “Hydra labs. We’re working on the latest and greatest biomedical advancements.”

That sounds vaguely ominous. Clint peeks in another door, eyes widening as he sees what looks like a very giant crocodile in a glass cage surrounded by scientists. It really looks like something out of a video game, or a movie. Not something he’d expect to see in real life.

“They’re a little science fiction-y,” Rumlow agrees, noting his expression. “I know.” He gestures to another door. “Home sweet home. Dump him in there, boys.”

They literally dump him, dragging him over the threshold before dropping him on the floor. Clint grunts, managing to roll in time to save his nose again. The Hydra goons file out after that, and Rumlow flips open a knife, kneeling down to cut through the zip ties.

The moment his arms are free, Clint gathers his feet underneath him and launches himself at Rumlow with a ragged yell. It’s pathetic as shit, his whole body refusing to cooperate with him. He ends up in a heap on the floor, glowering up at Rumlow as best he can. “I hate you,” he says, and at least that comes out clearly.

“I don’t give a shit,” Rumlow says, stepping over him. He moves towards the other side of the room. “Don’t bother getting up, anyway. That drug’s calculated for you. You won’t be metabolizing that one so fast.”

Clint blinks at him. “How do you know—”

“Barnes told us when he called in the first time.” Rumlow grins. “I gotta say, I’m impressed. He’s such a fucking robot around us, unless we make him otherwise. Ten seconds with you, and he’s calling us in a panic because you’re not changing like you’re supposed to. What’s so fucking special about you?”

“I smell good,” Clint says, and Rumlow rolls his eyes. He picks something up from the corner of the room—an honest-to-god iron _chain_ , complete with a nasty looking shackle on the end. Clint can slip anything, or pick anything, but that...that might give him some trouble.

“Let’s talk about this,” he says, looking around for anything that might be useful. But there’s nothing, not even a fucking camp cot or a blanket or anything. Just a metal slab on the far wall that looks more ominous than comfortable.

“We’re not talking about shit,” Rumlow says. “I’m securing you, and then I got better things to do. The lab boys are gonna come check you out.” He smirks. “They were _real_ interested in you. I kinda wonder what’s gonna be left by the time they’re through.”

Clint’s blood goes cold, Natasha’s words ringing in his ears. “Why?”

“Because you’re unique,” Rumlow says, leaning down to grab his leg. “And unique is always valuable.”

_I’m not entirely sure you are human, Clint._

“Wait,” he says, grabbing Rumlow’s arm. Rumlow twists, breaking the hold easily. “Wait—you know what I am?”

“You don’t?” Rumlow asks, a little smirk stealing over his face. “Seriously?”

“I—” Clint shakes his head. “I thought I was human.”

“Oh, Barton.” The tone is patronizing, and condescending, and Clint hates it. Rumlow even pats him on the fucking head, like he’s a damn dog. “Well. You’re half-right.”

Half-right— “What the fuck does that mean? What’s the other half?”

Rumlow reaches down again, grabbing his left leg. Clint tries to kick him off, but he’s still too uncoordinated, and it doesn’t quite work. Rumlow bats him aside, then pulls Clint’s socks and shoes off, tossing them towards the door before pushing his pant leg up. “Didn’t your parents tell you?”

“Of course they did,” Clint says. “Long family discussions about my heritage, clearly. That’s why I’m asking _you_ instead of just fucking knowing it.” He scowls. “Come on, man. Gonna be an asshole about it? Really?”

Rumlow’s still grinning. “You really don’t know,” he says. “I don’t see how you never figured it out. Thought you were supposed to be smart.”

“We all know I’m not,” Clint says. “Just fucking tell me.”

“You’re half-fae,” he says, closing the iron shackle around Clint’s ankle. Then he stands up and grins, patting Clint on the head again. “Be nice to the lab boys,” he orders, and then he’s walking out the door, leaving Clint to stare after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://clintscoffeepot.tumblr.com/). Thank you!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They take him down the hallway—not to the world’s least sanitary hospital, at least, but further down the other way. Clint’s pretty sure they’re in some kind of abandoned mental hospital, if his glimpse outside was correct. Which means this is probably the basement. Which means not-so-good things coming for him, most likely. Nothing good ever happens in creepy asylum basements.

Clint thinks it’s ridiculous, at first. He’s not half-fae. He _knows_ the stories about them, and they don’t fucking fit. He doesn’t look like them, or talk like them. He doesn’t have any goddamn magic, either. He’s just...Clint.

But there’s a red ring around his ankle where the iron’s touching him—faint, but it’s there. And if he thinks about it, it might not have been the Bailey’s that fucked him up before. Fae can get drunk on cream, he knows, and that would certainly explain a lot—

“No,” he says out loud, but honestly, it’s the only thing that makes sense. Rumlow is an asshole, but there’s no reason for him to lie. Not here. Not right now. And it _fits_ , in a way, fits like a piece of himself has just clicked into place. Like he knew all along, and hearing it out loud just confirmed it.

He paces as much as he can. He’s tired as fuck, but he doesn’t know when the lab people will be in, and he doesn’t want to be caught napping. So he paces, and looks at the chain, and tries to put together what few puzzle pieces he knows. Tries to make a plan. Takes a moment to set his nose, wincing hard at the sharp flare of pain.

He wonders about Barnes, too, unsure if they’re putting him in the Chair like he was so worried about. Wonders if he’s going to get to see him again, or if Clint’s going to have to figure out where he is when he busts out of here—

Clint stops pacing, facing the door for a moment. Bust out of here is a nice thought, but for that to happen he’s gonna have to get the damn chain off.

He drops down, examining it for the fifteenth time. The lock is a heavy-duty bastard, like this is some kind of eighteenth-century dungeon. He’s surprised they didn’t give him a pile of hay to sleep on, or bread and water to eat. Hell, he half-expects a rat to come crawling out of a vent or something. It’s just...ridiculous, all of it. It’s _so_ Hydra, in a way that he didn’t even know how to explain until he saw it.

There’s nothing for him to pick the lock with. No weak links in the chain. It’s set securely into the wall, and unless being half-fae means he’s as strong as Steve, there’s no way he’s pulling it out.

“Shit,” he mutters, shifting to sit on his ass. His feet are freezing. _He’s_ freezing. There’s a vent by the door, but it’s not blowing out anything warm. There’s a window, too—more like a half-window—but it’s barred, and up too high. No chance of him even getting to it, let alone getting out. Doesn’t look like he can pull out the bars, in any case.

Clint sighs, then goes to rattle the door again. No weaknesses there either, sadly. Not even any bolts or joints for him to pry loose. The glass window pane is small, and enforced, so he won’t be breaking that anytime soon.

“Goddamnit,” he mutters, and leans his head against the cool metal. “How do you keep getting into this shit?”

He thinks about Nat, who’s A) going to be pissed that he’s gone, _again_ , and B) going to be even more pissed that they shot up her apartment.

“Gonna buy you all the blood,” he promises the empty room. “I’ll go to the Finger Lakes, get that fancy shit from that one winery you like.”

Thinking about Nat hurts, though, so he shoves that aside. But that just makes him think about Barnes, and that hurts too. He keeps seeing Barnes’ face, looking up at him from the bed, hair tousled and eyes trusting. Sees him across the room in the apartment, eyes blank and jaw tense. They’re probably wiping his memories right now, resetting him back into the guy they’d first sent after Clint.

He thunks his head against the door once, and then turns around. There’s got to be something else he can do. Something that he’s missed. There’s _always_ a way out.

He’s going over the room again when there’s a clanking sound at the door, and it swings open. Five people come into the room, one of them pushing a wheelchair with an alarming amount of restraints on it. They’re all dressed in scrubs, armed with handguns and wearing face masks.

Clint looks at it, then at the guns pointed at him. “Hi,” he says, settling into a fighting stance automatically. “How can I help you?”

“Get in the chair,” says one of the people. He doesn’t recognize anyone, at least, although he’s not sure if he’s pleased about that or not. Less betrayal factor, but also he doesn’t know anything about their fighting capabilities.

“I see they haven’t told you about me,” Clint says, hands balling into fists as he readies himself for a fight. One of these fuckers has to have a key. He’s gonna get the fuck out of here.

“They have, actually,” the guy says. There’s a long scar on his face, stretching from forehead to chin. “Get in the damn chair, Barton.”

“I see they mislead you.” Clint eyes them, counting bodies. He can do it, maybe. The chain will be a hindrance, but he can get them in the reach of it, it shouldn’t be too much of an issue. Might even make a good weapon if he can use it right.

The guy shakes his head. “Get in the chair, Barton. If I have to put you there, I’m gonna be pissed.”

Clint grins at him, a little feral, a little unhinged. “Like to see you fucking try.”

The guy sighs. “Alright,” he says, and steps forward, fist already swinging.

Clint ducks the first blow, twisting underneath it to nail him in the side with a sharp blow. It’s enough to make him choke, dropping to his knees, and Clint punches him in the side of the head before turning to the next one.

He’s greeted with a taser rod, which he narrowly avoids. “ _Hey—_ ”

“Stand down,” the woman hisses, swiping at him again. She’s clearly not experienced with using it, judging from the awkward way it sits in her hand, and he’s able to dodge her next hit as well. “You’re only making this worse—”

“Thought they told you about me,” he grunts, catching her wrist. It’s _hot_ , like a fire, and he grits his teeth against the burning on his hand. He manages to spin her, pushing her into the other two advancing, clearing himself some space. Then there’s only the one left. He steps back as the guy strikes out, dodging quick enough that the guy staggers, off-balance. Clint quickly darts forward, taking advantage of the moment to slam a fist into his stomach. He twists into the punch, putting as much momentum into it as he possibly can. The guy stumbles backwards, choking, falling to a knee, and Clint goes to kick him—

Except he kicks with his left leg, used to fighting with all four limbs. Halfway through the kick, the chain tightens, already at its full extent. Rather than hitting the guy, Clint falls on his ass, knocking the wind out of himself. His head cracks against the floor, and he sees stars for a moment, his vision spinning and sparking as nausea roils through him.

“Fuck,” he wheezes, rolling onto his side. _Get up, Barton, get the fuck up_ —

He manages to get himself up to his knees. By that point, though, the others have mostly recovered. They drag him upright, bringing the chair over and shoving him into it. He’s roughly strapped into it, secured at his chest, arms, wrists, legs, and ankles. Overkill, really, but he almost doesn’t blame them.

“You’re gonna regret that,” one of them hisses, kneeling down to unlock the shackle. “Could’ve made this easy.”

“I’ve never made a damn thing easy in my life,” he says, shaking his head to try and clear it.

“Clearly,” the woman says, rubbing her wrist where he’d grabbed her. He’d feel bad about it, but his hand is still burning. Her eyes are a hypnotizing color—like a fire, shifting and moving, and her red hair almost seems to spark—

_Phoenix_ , Clint thinks, studying her. He’s never met a phoenix before. She’s pretty, in a gonna-burn-you-alive kind of way. Subtle power in her movements. Kind of reminds him of Natasha, almost. Except she’s more on the deadly grace side of the scale.

She scowls. “The hell are you staring at?”

“I like your eyes,” Clint says, which is...stupid, he thinks. To say. But his head hurts, and it’s the first thing he can think of. “They’re pretty.”

The woman blinks. Then she _blushes_ , a faint red flush creeping up her neck. “Thank you?”

“What’s your name?” he asks. Might as well try and endear himself, at least a little bit. Maybe if he can charm her a little bit they’ll—

“Don’t tell him,” Scarface says, and Phoenix looks alarmed. “He’s a fucking fae, are you stupid?”

“Half-fae,” Clint says, like that matters. “Apparently.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He glares at Phoenix. “Don’t talk to him.”

She closes her mouth, the blush creeping up a little further, and moves away. Clint scowls at Scarface. “Rude.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Scarface snaps, “if you want to stay conscious.”

He does very much want to stay conscious, so he forces himself to stay silent as they wheel him out the door. They take him down the hallway—not to the world’s least sanitary hospital, at least, but further down the other way. Clint’s pretty sure they’re in some kind of abandoned mental hospital, if his glimpse outside was correct. Which means this is probably the basement. Which means not-so-good things coming for him, most likely. Nothing good ever happens in creepy asylum basements.

_You’re so pessimistic_ , he thinks, drumming his fingers on the armrest. _Maybe they’re going to take you to a super comfy room, and give you cookies_. He grins, then blinks, shaking his head again. Fuck. He’s probably got a concussion. Two, if he counts the nose smashing from earlier. There’s still dried blood on his face, too, and his clothes, and he feels grimy as hell. Also, his feet are still cold.

“Can I have some socks?” he asks, twisting a bit to look at Phoenix, who still seems like his best bet for anything. “Kinda cold down here.”

“When we’re done,” she says quietly, and Clint decides to count that as a victory. He can endure whatever they throw at him as long as he’s got warm feet at the end of it.

They take him to an operating room. The floors and walls are lined with a grimy-looking tile, almost yellow in discoloration. There’s an ancient metal shelf against the far wall, complete with dusty old bottles full of questionable liquids. The fluorescent lights are old too, sparking and flickering high above them in the tiled ceiling. In the middle of the floor is a very terrifying looking operating table. More straps dangle from it, enough to be somewhat alarming. The equipment surrounding it is high-tech as hell, at least, but it looks out of place compared to the rest of the room.

“This seems sanitary,” Clint comments, and gets a slap across his face for his troubles, and a terse order to shut his damn mouth.

It takes all five of them to strap him onto the table. He comes out of it with a black eye, a couple broken fingers, and what’s probably a cracked rib, but he manages to take out two of the guards. _Could probably consider that a win._

“You little fucker,” Scarface mutters, dragging the two unconscious bodies over to the side of the room. “Could’ve made this go easy.”

“Yeah,” Clint mutters, trying to control his heart rate as they start cutting off his upper layers with medical shears. “Could’ve.” He looks around at the room, and the instruments of trays, and the various machines. “Okay. What’re you gonna do here?”

“You think we’re telling you?” Scarface sneers. “We don’t gotta tell you a damn thing.”

Clint thinks about arguing, but he’s already in a fair amount of pain, and that’s probably not going to improve. “Guess that’s a no on the cookies,” he mutters instead, trying to mentally prepare himself.

It’s definitely a no on the cookies. They start off easy—asking questions, taking DNA samples, drawing blood. He spends a scary few minutes with his head in a scanning machine, which looks like it’s going to lobotomize him rather than do anything else. But then they progress to more invasive things, involving scalpels and cutting and slicing and talking about him like he’s a lab object instead of a person.

It sucks, really, and Clint’s been in some shitty situations before. He’s been tortured, and beaten, and locked in dark cells for days on end. But this—god, he can see why Barnes was so worried about coming back. He makes himself stay awake, watching and waiting for an opportunity. They’re good, but they’re not perfect. They’re going to make a mistake. He just has to see it.

The chance comes when Phoenix moves to re-strap his left arm. It’s lacerated all to hell from him pulling at them during their little electricity session, and he’s bleeding. Again. Phoenix is quietly scolding Scarface, fingers pulling at the buckle. “I think we should stop,” she says, and her voice sounds like it’s coming from far away. “He seems pretty out of it. We can gather the rest of the data later.”

“No.” Scarface sounds way too happy about everything. “I told him we could’ve made this easy. He wants to be uncooperative, we’re doing all the tests right fucking now. See if the lesson sticks for next time.” He leans over the table, snapping his fingers in Clint’s face until he opens his eyes. “Hear me, asshole? This could’ve been avoided. This is your fault.”

“Usually is,” Clint says, the words clumsy in his mouth. God, he’s tired. He’s so tired.

Phoenix pulls the strap loose. “I’m going to wrap your wrist,” she says. “Then we—”

Clint yanks his hand free. He reaches over to the other side, grabs a scalpel off the tray, and stabs blindly, forcing her to jump back. He just needs a second to get through the strap around his chest, and then he can sit up—

Scarface grabs his hand, slamming it back across his body. Clint yells as the sharp edge drags across his skin, flipping it in time to narrowly avoid stabbing himself. Fingers dig cruelly into his skin, making his hand spasm open, and he hears the scalpel skitter to the floor. It had been a long shot to begin with, he knows, but there’s still a flare of disappointment in him as he hears the metal land on the tile.

He stops fighting, then, dropping his arm back down to his chest and releasing the little bit of leverage he has on Scarface. He lets them strap his wrist back down—tighter this time—and closes his eyes against the burn of tears in them. Goddamnit. _Goddamnit_.

“Going somewhere?” Scarface sneers. “Nice try, Barton.” He slaps Clint across the face. The taste of blood blooms in his mouth. “You’re just not good enough.”

“Gonna give you a shit Yelp review,” he says thickly, spitting blood to the floor. “Beds have straps. Staff not receptive to requests. Zero out of five stars, would not recommend Hydra Bed and Breakfast.”

“Don’t you ever fucking shut up?” Scarface snarls, and picks something off the tray. A gag. He’s almost surprised they haven’t pulled it out yet. He thinks about fighting that too, but then they’re forcing it in his mouth, and he doesn’t really have a choice.

He zones out for the rest of it, only coming back to himself when a cool touch brushes along his forehead. He forces his eyes open at that, brain faintly registering new stimuli—

“Barnes,” he says, or tries to say. There’s a shushing sound, and then gentle fingers are pulling the gag out of his mouth. He coughs, licks his cracked lips, tries again. “Barnes?”

“Yeah,” Barnes murmurs. “Try not to talk.” He glances to the side, and Clint can distantly make out the figures of Scarface, Phoenix, and the other tech in the corner. “I’m going to take you off the table. Don’t fight me.”

“Okay,” Clint says. He very much wants to fight, but he’s got nothing left in him. He feels utterly drained, like he wants to collapse and sleep for a million years.

There’s a scoffing noise from the corner. “What’s so fucking special about you?”

Barnes turns and glares at him. Clint thinks it’s kinda funny, really, but Scarface apparently finds it terrifying. He scowls, but doesn’t add anything else on.

“You should go,” Barnes says to them. It’s phrased as a suggestion, but his tone makes it clear there’s an order in the words. And they do, clearing out so fast it’s almost comical. Barnes waits until the door closes, then turns back to Clint. “I’m sorry.”

“Let me up,” Clint rasps. “Let’s get outta here.”

“I’ll let you up,” Barnes says. “But we’re not leaving.”

Clint stares at him. “What?”

“We can’t leave.” He undoes the chest strap. “There’s no way out.”

“So we’ll make one.”

“I said no, Barton.”

“But you—” Clint breaks off in a coughing fit that jars his ribs all to hell. Barnes shoves a water cup in his hand, and he takes a few shaking sips. “But you said—”

“I was wrong,” Barnes murmurs, and the words sound atonal. Flat. Parroted. “I shouldn’t have tried to leave. This is the only place I belong.”

“You’re shitting me,” Clint says, watching as he undoes the ankle straps. “You—you’re going back on it? All of it? SHIELD can help us—” He stops, suddenly remembering Rumlow. “Well. The Avengers can. We’ll go to Natasha, and Steve—”

“No.”

The word is quiet, resigned, but it falls on his ears with a weight almost too heavy to bear. Clint suddenly realizes how much he’d been depending on Barnes coming with him. On saying _yes_.

He stares at the ceiling, a sense of despair settling into his bones. He can make it out alone, he knows, but he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to leave Barnes behind. Clint knows it’s unreasonable—he barely knows the guy, and most of their relationship has involved him being held at gunpoint or tied to things—but he still wants Barnes to come with him. Wants it so desperately he can almost taste it.

“Please,” he says softly, voice breaking. “I—please, Barnes. We can get out if we work together.”

Barnes pulls him upright, steadying him before stepping over to bring the wheelchair closer. “No,” he says again, and it’s just as devastating as the first time. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Clint mutters, staring at the ground. “Everyone’s sorry for something.” He picks up the water, makes himself take a few more swallows. “Did you mean any of it?”

Barnes reaches for him. “Mean what?”

“You and me.” Clint thinks about punching him, but he’s not sure he could lift a finger right now, let alone hit hard enough to convey how _hurt_ he is. “What you said, about wanting to come with me. Did you mean it, or were you lying?”

He can’t articulate why it’s important, but it is. He _needs_ to know, needs to if Barnes was just using him, or if maybe there really was a glimmer of hope underneath all of that—

“I don’t know,” Barnes murmurs, helping him up. He doesn’t strap him into the wheelchair, but that doesn’t really matter. Clint’s pretty sure he can’t walk. “I—I don’t know, Barton.”

“Figure it out,” Clint snaps. They lapse into silence as Barnes wheels him through the door.

“I told you,” Barnes eventually says, turning down another hallway. “They always find me. There’s no point in fighting it.”

“There’s always a point in fighting. Even if that point is just to be an asshole.”

“We don’t have to fight,” Barnes says.

Clint twists to look at him. “The fuck does that mean? Of course we have to fight—”

“But we don’t.” Barnes looks down at him, almost pleading. “They always find me, Barton. They _always_ win. Isn’t it just better to...stay? I couldn’t change you, but I might be able to convince them to let me keep you. To train you.”

Clint blinks, then shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I—no. We have to—I can’t just take this lying down, Barnes. I’m an _Avenger_. I’m a SHIELD agent. I won’t suddenly flip and—”

“They’ll take you,” Barnes murmurs. “If you don’t. They’ll take you from me.”

“I don’t care,” Clint says, facing forward again. And it’s not true, he _does_ care, but — “I’m not staying here, Barnes. I’m not doing what they want.”

Barnes is quiet for a long while. It’s not until they’re back at Clint’s cell, and he’s closing the chain around Clint’s ankle that he speaks again. “I used to say that too.”

Clint tries to tuck his pant leg under the iron, save his skin from more irritation. “Say what?”

“That I wouldn’t do it.” He stops, hands gently tracing up Clint’s leg. Clint has a sudden flash of memory, an image of how Barnes had touched him the other night— “But I always do. They...there’s no room to fight them. Things never get better.”

“You didn’t have me, before,” Clint says, trying to sound braver than he is. “I can help, Barnes. I’m—with both of us, we can get out—”

Barnes, for one shining moment, actually looks like he’s considering it. But then there’s a commotion outside, important-sounding footsteps marching his way, and a blank mask settles over his face. “Don’t make them hurt you,” he says, and steps back, moving to stand on the far side of the cell.

Rumlow comes in first, the sneer on his face getting wider as he sees the state Clint’s in. “Rough day?” he asks coldly, and Clint flips him off. The door opens wider, a few other agents coming in, and then—

“Well, fuck,” Clint says before he can stop himself. “Alexander Pierce, you son of a bitch. You’re gonna break Fury’s heart.”

Pierce just smiles. He’s followed by Jasper Sitwell, and Jack Rollins, people Clint recognizes as being SHIELD. It _hurts_ , like a punch to the gut, seeing all of them here. Knowing that he’s worked alongside them, or for them. Knowing that the whole time he thought he was doing good, he might actually have been helping the other side.

He’s not sure why they’re all here, really, other than maybe to rub it in. God knows he’s not going anywhere right now. Not in the state he’s in.

Still, he forces himself up to his wobbling feet. Plasters a smirk on his face and crosses his arms. “Got the whole crew out for me, huh? I’m almost honored.”

Pierce gestures to the floor. “Don’t stand on my account, Barton. I’m sure you’re feeling a little under the weather.”

“Fuck you,” Clint snaps, and a couple wary hands drift towards their weapons. He looks around, clocking the different species in here. Rumlow and Rollins, both werewolves. The red-haired woman is probably a djinn, according to the curling tattoo edging out from under her clothes. Another red-eyed vampire— a tall, imposing bastard—standing next to Barnes. A half-giant standing guard in the hallway.

And himself, he supposes. He’s going to have to get used to that—putting himself in the supernatural category.

Pierce looks at ease, despite being the only full human in the whole room. Looks damn thrilled, actually, and he motions for Rollins to bring him a folding chair. “Sit,” he says again, the word more an order than anything else.

“Fuck you.” But his legs are wobbling, and he really doesn’t want to fall over in front of all of them. So he takes a couple steps sideways, sitting on the metal slab instead of the floor. It should feel like a victory, but it doesn’t. Not when it’s followed by Pierce’s smug smile.

“I imagine you want to know why you’re here,” he says. “And what all those tests were for.”

Clint shrugs. “Depends on if you’re gonna evil-villain monologue about it.” He crosses his arms, leans back against the wall. “I’m not interested in hearing about how your mommy didn’t love you enough, and that’s why you turned dark side. Origin stories bore me.”

In the corner, Barnes’ mouth twitches, like he’s about to smile. Pierce sighs. “I see you’re still as stubborn as ever.”

“What, and you’re surprised by that?”

“No,” Pierce sighs again. “I suppose I shouldn’t be.” He leans forward. “Well. In any case. You’re now part of our Winter Soldier program. And quite a promising addition, if I may say so.”

He pauses after that, like he’s waiting for something. Clint raises an eyebrow. “Is this the part where I clap? Should I thank you for the opportunity?” He rattles the chain around his foot. “Your onboarding process kinda sucks, I gotta say. You treat all your promising additions this way?”

Rumlow steps forward, one hand going to the taser rod at his belt. “Want me to shut him up?”

“No,” Piece says. “He’s just scared. I don’t begrudge him his coping mechanisms. We won’t be down here much longer, in any case.”

“I am not _scared_ ,” Clint snaps, which isn’t entirely true. “I’m cold. I’m tired. I feel like I got run over by a damn freight train, and now I have to sit here and listen to you talk at me. I’m pissed off, is what I am.”

“I understand,” Pierce says. “I’d like the opportunity to explain.”

His voice is way too fucking calm and reasonable, and Clint kind of wants to punch him in the face. He doesn’t, though. If—when—he gets out of here, he needs to take as much information back to Natasha as he can. She’ll help him figure out the extent of this. So he makes himself sit back, folding his arms and obnoxiously crossing his ankle over his knee. Casual, if not for the chain dangling from his leg. “Explain away,” he says, gesturing with one hand. “Can’t fucking wait to hear this.”

Pierce nods. “To put a long story short,” he says. “There are a lot of threats in the world today. Threats to peace, threats to humanity, threats to the country we call home. Hydra’s response to those threats is what we call the Winter Soldier program.” He nods at Barnes. “The Asset over there, he’s one of our earliest successes. We find promising candidates, we provide them with a particular serum—similar to the one used on Captain America, you see—and then we train them to fight those threats.”

“And I’m sure this is an FDA-approved serum and trial,” Clint says dryly. “Informed consent, ability to withdraw at any time, et cetera.” He rattles the chain again. “So what, you just yank people off the street?”

“We’ve recruited many different subjects,” Pierce says, unbothered by the accusations. “Recently, we’ve been focusing on supernatural candidates. As I said, we had a great success with the Asset back in the day, minor instabilities aside. But you—we’ve never had anyone quite like you.”

“Unique,” Clint mutters, thinking about what Rumlow had said. “Right.”

“Fae are unusual,” Pierce says. “Half-fae even more so. You’re only the second one I’ve ever met.” He tilts his head, studying Clint. “How did you make it past SHIELD’s screening service?”

“Buddy, you’re asking the wrong guy.” Clint shrugs. “I was today years old when I found out, so...”

“Come now,” Pierce says. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Believe what you want,” Clint says. “But it’s the truth. I didn’t know. I thought I was human.”

He can tell that Pierce really doesn’t believe him, but he doesn’t push the topic anymore either. “Regardless. I’m looking forward to the results of this.”

Clint rubs his forehead. He’s starting to get a headache, honestly. “I don’t get it.”

“Don’t get what?”

“Why you’re telling me this. Why you’re here, gloating, instead of just fucking doing it.”

“I’m just here to...brief you, shall we say. I oversee the whole program. I like to know who we’re bringing in.” He nods at Clint. “All our successful candidates help us shape the world. I like to meet them at the beginning.”

“You’ve met me,” Clint says, head still in his hand. “You told Fury I was brash, reckless, and likely to get someone killed.”

Pierce smirks a little. “I see he passed that on.”

“Only because he agreed with it.” _And then he ended up being right._

“Well.” Pierce stands up. “I’m just here to lay things out for you, Barton. This—” he gestures around the cell “—for the foreseeable future, is your home. Cooperate with us, earn some goodwill, and we can talk about upgrades.”

“So what,” Clint says, raising his head. “Good boys get treats? That’s how we’re working this? Kinda stereotypical, don’t you think?”

“Carrot and stick,” Pierce says. “You behave, you are rewarded. You misbehave, you are punished. Stereotypical or not, you can’t deny it’s effective. Pavlov had the right idea.”

“Skinner.”

Pierce tilts his head. “Come again?”

“Pavlov was classical conditioning. Dogs and the dinner bell? Skinner was the operant conditioning guy. Negative and positive reinforcement.” Clint tucks his knees up to his chest, rests his arms on them. “Just saying.” 

Pierce looks annoyed for half a moment before he wipes it off his face. “Right. My mistake.” He holds his hands out. “Any questions?”

“You called it the Winter Soldier program,” Clint says.

“That’s correct.”

“Seems kinda short sighted. What if your fancy soldier is made in summer? Or fall? No point in limiting yourself to one season, you know?” 

It’s a stupid question, and a stupider joke, but it’s worth it for the pinched look that appears on Pierce’s face, and the way everyone else suddenly looks both annoyed and uncomfortable. “I’m not going to deign to answer that.” He nods at the door, and Rumlow opens it. “You won’t be seeing me for some time. I’m going to leave you in Mr. Lukin’s capable hands.”

Clint looks around. Presumably, Lukin is the one guy he doesn’t recognize, the other vampire standing by Barnes. He studies the two of them, noting the way Barnes is deferring to him, and makes the general conclusion that Lukin’s probably the one who turned him. He doesn’t know a whole lot about vampire hierarchies, but there’s just something about the way he’s standing—the half-cringed way he’s curled into himself—that makes Clint think that’s probably the case.

Or he’s scared of Lukin. Either way, it doesn’t bode well for Clint.

He shifts his gaze over to Pierce. “I’m gonna get out of here,” he says. “You know that, right?”

“Oh, Barton,” Pierce says, offering him a condescending smile. “You’re certainly welcome to try.”

He leaves, then. They all do, except for Barnes and Lukin. Barnes goes and stands by the door, at Lukin’s direction. His face is blank, but there’s a tension to his posture that he can’t quite hide. His eyes keep flicking to Clint, warning him about something. Clint doesn’t have time to learn what before Lukin is grabbing him, dragging him off the metal slab and down to the floor. “Ow, what the fuck—”

“Kneel,” Lukin snaps, and Clint glares up at him. His eyes are red, but there’s no signs of hunger. No wavering, no slurred speech. He’s in icy control of himself, and it’s utterly terrifying.

“What is your name?” Lukin asks, voice as cold as the rest of him.

“Is this a joke?”

Lukin smacks him across the face. He’s wearing a heavy gold ring, and Clint can feel it split his cheek open, a tiny drop of blood rolling down. He catches himself and tries to breathe through the pain, glancing up at Barnes. Barnes looks back at him, something like an apology in his eyes.

“What is your name?”

“Clint Barton,” Clint says, and Lukin smacks him again. He’s slower getting up this time, but he still does it, tasting blood on the inside of his mouth.

“You do not have a name,” Lukin corrects.

Clint pushes himself upright. “That’s gonna get confusing,” he says. “You gotta call me something.”

“You are our asset.” Lukin grabs his hair and wrenches his head back. “We will give you a designation when you have earned one. Until then, you are nothing. You are nobody.” He lets go, shoving Clint down to the floor. “I ask again. What is your name?”

Clint locks eyes with Barnes one more time. _Tell him what he wants to hear,_ he can almost hear Barnes say. _Just give in. There’s no point in fighting it._

“Yeah, there is,” he says, spitting a mouthful of blood on the floor. “There’s always a point.”

Lukin taps him on the head, like a reprimand. “I asked you a question.”

Clint takes a deep breath. Maybe there isn’t a way out, this time. Maybe Pierce’s veiled threat was right, and he’s stuck here. Maybe they will, in time, turn him into whatever Barnes is.

But he’ll be damned if he _gives_ them the satisfaction. If they want his name, they’re gonna have to fucking take it.

“Clint Barton,” he says again, and closes his eyes as the gold ring descends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://clintscoffeepot.tumblr.com/). Thank you!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It scares him, though. He can handle the torture, and the beatings, and the whole “you have no name here” bullshit that Lukin’s throwing out. This, though—this is what they did to Barnes. He’s almost sure of it. They keep talking about memory, and mapping, and having him answer weird questions as they mutter excitedly about things in German and Russian. It makes Clint uneasy.

They don’t give him socks.

That’s the worst part, really. He’s beat to hell, and probably slowly bleeding to death, and he hasn’t eaten in...a while. And he can handle all of that, he really can. But his feet being cold just adds an extra layer of suck to everything, one that he’s finding difficult to overcome. It’s even worse right now, since he’s still shivering from the frozen shower they’d dragged him into.

He rolls painfully onto his back, staring at the ceiling of his cell. It’s been a week, he thinks. Maybe more. He’s lost some time from the sessions with Lukin. Still has his name, though. And the bruises to prove it. He doesn’t know how long that’ll last, but he doesn’t care. He’s holding onto it tightly, keeps whispering it into the harsh lights of his cell. _My name is Clint Barton. My name is Hawkeye. I’m an Avenger. A SHIELD agent. World’s greatest marksman. I’m hum—no, I’m half-fae. I’m a sniper. I’m a pain in the ass._

There’s other names he doesn’t want to lose either, so he whispers those too. Natasha, and Steve, and Thor, and Bruce. SHIELD agents that he’s worked with. Barney.

Barnes.

He sees Barnes a few times after that first session. He shows up with some medical supplies, checking Clint’s various broken bones and making sure they’re healing straight. Another time he brings some water, showing up an hour later to confiscate the bottle. He looks shifty both times, like he’s not supposed to be there. Maybe he isn’t—Clint has no fucking idea.

Lukin shows up in the mornings, or what he thinks is the morning. First light in the cell, anyway. He beats the shit out of Clint, then leaves, returning a few hours later to do it again. Sometimes it’s fists, sometimes it’s this nasty metal rod that Clint’s pretty sure could break bones if Lukin wasn’t so controlled in his hits. Between hits it’s always the same bullshit, the same Hydra rhetoric. _You are ours. You have no name. You are nothing._

They’re gonna have to try harder, he thinks, if they want to get to him that way. Gonna have to try saying things he hasn’t whispered to himself in the dead of night. The inside of his head is a hell of a lot scarier than anything Lukin could ever offer to him. 

In between those sessions, he gets to spend more time in the medical room. They’ve moved on from the basic torture, at least. He mostly sits in a chair with electrodes stuck to his head as a team of white-coated scientists move around and talk about him like he’s an object.

It scares him, though. He can handle the torture, and the beatings, and the whole “you have no name here” bullshit that Lukin’s throwing out. This, though—this is what they did to Barnes. He’s almost sure of it. They keep talking about memory, and mapping, and having him answer weird questions as they mutter excitedly about things in German and Russian. It makes Clint uneasy.

There’s no good time for him to mount an escape, though. He keeps an eye out every time they move him, but either Barnes or Scarface warned them, because the guards are insanely wary. They keep out of grappling range, and he’s strapped down in the wheelchair whenever they take him out of the cell.

Phoenix is probably his best shot—her real name is Sydney, apparently, but he still calls her Phoenix in his head—but she’s never alone with him, and most of his attempts to sweet-talk her have ended up with him being gagged in some capacity. So he gives up on that angle after a few times, although he still tries to be nice to her where he can. Between her and Barnes, he almost has one whole person on his side here. He doesn’t want to jeopardize that if he can help it.

The door opens, and Clint turns his head, wincing at the pain in his neck. It’s the usual contingent of guards—only three of them, this time—and he sighs, looking up at the ceiling again. “Hey, fellas.”

“Get up,” one of them snaps. “Now.”

“Can’t even say please,” Clint mutters, not moving. He doesn’t feel like fighting, but he’s not going to get up and waltz into their stupid wheelchair. Probably can’t, anyway. He’s dizzy just laying here, he’s pretty sure that getting up will just knock him over. “Would it kill you to ask nice?”

“Barton,” says another voice, and Clint turns his head again. Barnes is there, hovering in the doorway. He looks...nervous, somehow. Clint doubts anyone else can see it, but there’s a tension in his posture beyond the usual baseline. “Get up. Get in the chair.”

There’s something in his voice, too. Something that Clint can’t put his finger on. He holds his gaze for a moment, noting the red mixing in with the blue— _blood, he needs blood, he’s going to_ —

“You think he’s going to listen to you?” sneers one of the guards. “Does your master even know you’re down here?”

Barnes snaps his eyes to the guy, narrowing them a little. The guy pales, shaking hand scrambling for his gun. “Back off,” he says, voice wavering. “I’ll shoot you.”

“No you won’t,” Barnes says, moving into the room. He doesn’t even spare the guy a second glance, just shoulder checks him as he walks by. Clint snickers a little as the guy spins, staggering to get his balance.

“Big scary vampire,” he says as Barnes stops next to the slab, and he sees a hint of a smile cross his face. “You need blood. You look like hell.”

The smile gets traded for confusion. “I...” Barnes starts, then pauses, eyebrows creasing together. Which—fair. Clint doesn’t know why he cares. He shouldn’t care. Barnes basically threw him to the Hydra wolves—literally, in a few cases. He shouldn’t give a single damn about him.

But he _does_ , and he doesn’t know how to turn that off. So he shrugs a little, and says, “I’d offer you some, but the lab guys keep stealing it. I need to...regenerate.”

That’s not quite the word he’s going for, but now that he thinks about it, that’s probably _why_ he feels so crappy right now. They did take a lot of his blood this morning, post-Lukin. More than was probably medically advisable. He has his doubts that they stick to Red Cross standards here. Of course, he hasn’t eaten either—

“They didn’t offer me any cookies,” he says, and Barnes tilts his head. “You’re supposed to get cookies. After donating blood.”

The little smile comes back. “Do you need help?” Barnes asks quietly. “Standing up, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Clint admits. “I’m—I’m real dizzy.” He reaches up with a floppy hand, grabs the front of Barnes’ tac vest. “Gimme a hand.”

Barnes easily maneuvers him upright. Clint has to pause to breathe, eyes squeezed shut as the room spins around him. Christ. A few days without food and a few unwilling blood donations is all it takes to make him useless?

“I think I’m human,” he says to Barnes. “I’m not helpful.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Barnes murmurs, tugging Clint’s arm over his shoulder and pulling him upright. “Just a couple steps, and you can sit.”

“I don’t wanna go back there.”

“I know.” Barnes sets him in the chair. He starts to pull the straps over Clint’s wrists, then pauses when he sees how lacerated they are. After a moment, he shakes his head and stands up.

“You have to strap him down,” one of the guards insists.

“No.”

“He—”

“He can’t stand,” Barnes says. “He’s not going anywhere. I’ll take responsibility if he tries anything.”

“Not gonna try anything,” Clint lies.

Barnes puts a hand on his shoulder. The metal one, Clint realizes. It’s cold against his bruises there. He likes it. Feels nice. “I got him.”

There must be a staring contest, because there’s a few moments of silence. Then the guard says, “Fine. If he fucks something up, don’t think for a second I’m covering for you.”

“I don’t expect you to,” comes the quiet reply, and then the chair is moving. Clint grabs the armrests, focusing on the cracked leather under his hands. This is it, he thinks. His chance. For the first time, he’s not strapped down. He just needs to get his hands on a weapon—

“ _Don’t_ ,” Barnes murmurs in Russian, pushing the chair down the hallway.

Clint blinks, then twists a little to look up at him. It makes him dizzy, and he has to take a few deep breaths so he doesn’t hurl. “What?”

“ _Not now_.” Barnes glances over his shoulder at the guards trailing them. “ _This isn’t the time._ ”

Clint blinks again. “ _What are you talking about?_ ” The words are clumsy in his mouth, the language a little slower to come out, but he manages it.

“Shut up,” one of the guards growls. “Both of you.”

“ _Wait_ ,” Barnes says, stopping the chair by the elevators. He reaches out and pushes the button, then turns to face the others. “I do not require your assistance.”

“Yeah, well, you’re gonna get it,” snaps the same guard. “We’re not supposed to leave him alone, and I sure as shit ain’t leaving him with you.”

Barnes doesn’t visibly react, other than his metal hand tightening. “I do not require your assistance,” he repeats as the doors open. He pushes the wheelchair in, then turns to stand in front of it, blocking the others from getting in. “I can manage alone.”

“I’ll tell Lukin—” the guy threatens.

“I don’t care,” Barnes says, and he shoves him backwards, sending him stumbling into the others. Quick as a flash, he hits the button, slamming the doors closed.

“You’re gonna get in trouble,” Clint mumbles, blinking slowly at him.

“I don’t care,” Barnes says again, and he hits another button. The elevator grinds to a halt as he digs in his jacket, coming up with a small bottle of what looks vaguely like an orange smoothie. He shoves it into Clint’s hand. “Drink this.”

“What is it?”

“Nutrients. I need you functional.” He glances at something around his right wrist—a watch, Clint realizes—and gestures frustratedly. “Drink it, Barton. Now.”

Clint looks him up and down. His eyes find the gun strapped into the thigh holster, and before he can think about what he’s doing, he’s reaching for it, dropping the bottle and fumbling it out with numb hands. He points it up at Barnes, aware on some level what a pathetic picture he’s making. It wouldn’t take more than the barest effort to disarm him right now.

But Barnes doesn’t. He just looks down the barrel of the gun, then raises his eyes to Clint. There’s resignation in his gaze, and defeat, and it’s more heartbreaking than anything.

“Go ahead,” he says quietly. “I wouldn’t—I don’t blame you.”

“Why are you here?” Clint asks, not moving.

“I’m helping you.”

“You said you weren’t going to do that.” Clint’s voice is shaking more than he’d like. “I asked you to come with me, and you said no. Said there wasn’t a point in fighting.” He can’t keep the bitterness out of his words.

“I know.” Barnes closes his eyes. “I—I’m sorry.”

Clint shakes his head. “I don’t forgive you,” he says, and wonders if he imagines the flash of pain on Barnes’ face. “And I sure as hell don’t trust you.”

“I know you don’t,” he murmurs, opening his eyes. “I wouldn’t either. But I’m your only choice right now, so if you want to get out of here in one piece, then drink that, and work with me.”

Clint stares him down. He’s not lying. He doesn’t trust Barnes at all, but he has to admit the guy’s got a point. It’s been a week, and he hasn’t even been able to find a chance to _try_. Whether he likes it or not, he’s not getting out of here alone. Working with Barnes is going to be his best shot.

So after a moment, he nods, then turns the gun around and gives it to Barnes, handle first. Then he leans down and picks up the bottle. “Is...what is that?”

“Just drink it,” Barnes says. “We only have a minute at best.”

Clint cracks the top and drinks it. It’s absolutely _foul_ , but he drinks it, tossing the empty bottle to the side with a shudder as he fights the urge to hurl. “Okay. Now what?”

Barnes is watching him closely, eyebrows furrowed, like he’s waiting for something. Clint stares back at him, an uneasy feeling prickling along his spine.

“Now what?” he repeats, and then it hits him like a goddamn freight train. His whole body suddenly feels like a live wire, like he just drank a thousand cups of coffee. He jumps to his feet almost without conscious permission, trembling.

“There,” Barnes says, looking satisfied with himself. “I thought that might work.”

“What the fuck,” Clint says, staring at his hands. He swears he can see an aura around them, a faint kind of glow— “Barnes, what the fuck was that?”

“I told you.” He’s looking up at the ceiling. After a second, he locks the wheelchair in place and stands on the armrests. “Nutrients.”

“ _And_?”

“And some other things.” He reaches up, moves aside a tile. “They give it to me on long missions when I need to be alert. It’s...jarring. I’m sorry.”

“I think I can smell sounds,” Clint says, and there’s a tiny laugh above him before a metal hand reaches down.

“Get up here,” Barnes says. “We can go out this way. We need to get to the roof. There’s a helicopter there.”

Clint hesitates. “I—” God, his whole body is shaking. He feels like he did that one time Trickshot brought drugs to a circus party, except this is like...a million times more intense. “Why are you helping me?”

Barnes looks at him. “You keep fighting,” he says, like that explains everything. “Come on. We need to move.”

Clint doesn’t get it, but he manages to tamp down on his questions for the moment. He needs to get the hell out of here. At this point, it really doesn’t matter how. “Fine,” he mutters, and awkwardly climbs up on the chair. It’s not as painful as it should be, considering how heightened his senses are, and he suspects there were several types of painkillers in that drink as well.

_Shouldn’t mix medicines_ , he thinks, but he’s not going to look too closely at it right now. Escape now, side effects later.

Barnes helps him up into the elevator shaft, then climbs up after him. He doesn’t bother to pull the tile shut behind him. “They’ll know,” is all he says, and points up. “We’re going to the roof. We’ll have to climb the cables.”

“Or we could use the ladder.” Clint points at the wall, and the rusting metal slats. “Gross, but safer. I think.”

“...or we could use the ladder,” Barnes agrees, and helps Clint over to it. “Climb. Quickly.”

Clint starts climbing. “I don’t get it,” he says after a moment. “What do you mean, I keep fighting?”

“You don’t—” Barnes sounds frustrated, and Clint glances down to see him scowling. “I don’t know. You just don’t stop.”

“Fucking should sometimes,” Clint mutters. “Head like a damn brick wall, that’s what Nat tells me. I never fucking know when to stop.” He scowls, shaking out a hand. This must be iron—it’s not _burning_ him, but it’s kind of like grabbing a too-hot bowl from the microwave. Distinctly uncomfortable, and he climbs a little faster. 

“No, you don’t,” Barnes says. “You’re annoying them, you know. Lukin and the rest. They thought you’d break.”

“It’s like they don’t even know me,” Clint sighs. “I might’ve, at one point. No one can hold out through that shit forever.” He glances down again in time to see a tight expression cross Barnes’ face. “Guessing that’s what happened to you?”

Barnes doesn’t answer. He just looks down at the elevator below, then back up. “Climb faster. They know.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m listening.” He taps his ear. “I stole a radio. They know.”

“That you stole the radio?”

“No, that we—” Barnes sighs. “Just _climb_ , Barton. We have to be on the roof in ten minutes, or the helicopter’s leaving without us.”

“I could probably fly us off,” Clint says, moving faster. “I feel like I can fly.” He almost starts singing the song, then stops, then decides _fuck it_ and starts singing anyway.

He makes it halfway through the first line before Barnes flicks his leg. “Stop it. They’ll hear us.”

“You said they know—”

“Doesn’t mean we should broadcast our position.”

“Fuck you, you just don’t like my singing—”

“Is that what you call it?”

“Fuck you again, I’m deaf.” He reaches up and taps the hearing aid in his left ear. He’s surprised that they haven’t been confiscated, but apparently even Hydra has some boundaries. _You can beat the prisoner half to death, but don’t take his hearing aids, otherwise he won’t be able to hear your squid Nazi rhetoric._ “Singing is hard.”

“Shut up and climb, Barton.”

“I could drop on your head, you know—” He mimes kicking Barnes, earning himself a scowl. He scowls right back. His blood is _singing_ , pulsing through his body at a somewhat alarming rate. “Fuck. Is my heart going to explode?”

Barnes shrugs. “I don’t think so.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“Mine hasn’t.”

“You’re a super-soldier!”

“You’re half-fae, you’re tougher than you think.” Barnes taps his leg. “Let me past you, I need to open the door at the top.”

Clint glares at him as he goes by, shimmying up the other side of the ladder, switching hands. “You’re a dick.”

“I know,” Barnes says. “I promise I’ll make it up to you.” He pauses, eyes on Clint’s, then adds in a soft voice, “All of it. I—all the mistakes I made. I’ll fix them. I can do better.”

That’s...vaguely alarming. It doesn’t even sound like his words, it sounds like something he’s said a million times before, rehearsed and parroted to perfection.

“I don’t...” Clint starts, and then shakes his head. “I don’t need that? I just...I just want to get out of here. Alive. Unexploded.”

Barnes snorts. “You’re not going to explode,” he says, and reaches over to the side, digging his fingers into the crack of the door. Clint watches as he heaves the doors open.

“That’s kind of hot,” he says, and Barnes glances at him, a ghost of a smile on his face.

“Come on,” is all he says, heaving himself up and over. “Roof’s this way.”

Clint follows him through the dingy hallway, past a few doors hanging off their hinges until they reach one just labeled “ROOF” in bright red letters.

“Subtle,” Clint says. “So there’s a helicopter up there?”

Barnes nods and pushes it open. “Supposed to be.”

“And if there’s not?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Do you have a Plan B?”

“I don’t even really have a Plan A,” Barnes admits. “I’m—I just decided to do this about thirty minutes ago. I’m supposed to be reporting to Lukin right now.”

Clint nods. “So...why aren’t you?”

“I don’t know.” He leads the way up a short set of metal stairs. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“I’m flattered, really.” They come to another door, this one chained shut. Barnes glares at it, tugging at the padlock. Clint would offer to pick it, but he doesn’t have any tools, and his hands are shaking so hard he’s not entirely sure he could anyway. “Ugh. When does this shit wear off? Also, I don’t have shoes.”

“Not sure. A few hours for me? So I’m guessing longer for you.” He eyes Clint. “You’ll be fine without shoes, we’re not going far. How do you feel?”

“I’m going to explode.” His heart is thundering in his chest, hard enough that he can feel every individual beat against his ribcage. “Seriously. I might be having a heart attack.”

“You’re not having a heart attack.”

“How do you know? You ever had one?” Barnes rolls his eyes. “You’re wishing you left me downstairs, aren’t you?”

“A little bit.” But there’s a smile again, even though the words are gruff. “You’re fine. Stand back.”

Clint stands back. Barnes grabs the padlock and yanks on it hard with his metal arm, popping it off in a single motion. Clint swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. Or more dry, really. “Fuck. Never mind. _That_ was hot.”

Barnes shoves him through the door. “Move,” he says, and Clint stumbles forward onto the roof. His bare feet immediately protest the sharp rocks under them, but he barely notices the pain. _Definitely some good shit in there._ He’s going to have to make sure he checks them for cuts later, last thing he needs is an infection—

“There,” Barnes says, and looks relieved at the sight of the helicopter. “Just a little farther.”

“Do you know where we’re going?”

“I have—” Barnes grabs his arm, stopping him. “Wait. Something’s wrong.”

Clint starts to ask what, but then he sees the limp body in the pilot’s seat, and a chill runs through his veins. He freezes in place, body practically vibrating with tension, burning with the need to move, to run, to get far away from here—

“Asset,” says another voice, and Barnes stiffens. He doesn’t go for any weapons, though. Doesn’t even try. Just stands there, other hand by his side, eyes fixed on Lukin’s form emerging from the other side of the helicopter, accompanied by a few soldiers with raised guns. “Care to explain what you think you’re doing?”

“I’m leaving,” Barnes says, his voice tight.

Lukin offers a cruel smile. “Is that so?”

“I’m taking him,” Barnes says. His voice stays steady, but his fingers are tight on Clint’s arm, and his hand is shaking. “I’m taking him, and I’m leaving.”

“That’s not a choice you get to make.” Lukin steps forward, red eyes fixed on Barnes. “You’re forgetting our first lesson, boy.” He takes another stop. “Do you need a reminder?”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Barnes whispers. “I know them. Every damn lesson. I remember _all_ of them.”

“It doesn’t appear that way.”

“I’m done,” Barnes says, and his voice breaks on the last word. “Hear me? I’m _done_. I’m not your puppet, I’m not doing this anymore.” He looks at Clint, then back at Lukin. “And you were wrong.”

Lukin raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“You’re not my only option. You never have been. I just didn’t know where else to look.”

Lukin smirks. “And you think Barton can offer you something better? You think you’ll be accepted at SHIELD? You, who’s done so much to work against them? You think they’ll welcome you with open arms?” He steps a little closer, eyes narrowing. “You really think you can go somewhere we can’t find you?”

“Man, fuck _off_ ,” Clint snaps, and Lukin’s gaze moves to him. “God, you’re such an asshole. Did your parents not hug you enough or something?” He steps forward. “Seriously. What’s your problem?”

“Barton,” Barnes murmurs, suddenly looking worried. “Don’t—”

“No, I’m gonna.” Clint glances at him, then looks around, a series of terrible ideas running through his head. “This guy’s a dick, and he deserves to hear it.”

Lukin studies him with red-eyes, judging him in ways that Clint will never understand. Then a smirk curves his mouth, and he makes a slight gesture with his hand. “Take them both,” he says to the soldiers, turning away. “I’m finished with this.”

The soldiers advance. Clint looks around, desperately stringing through plans as he and Barnes back up. “Hey,” he says after a moment. “You ever hear that Bible story about the sheep guy and the giant?”

One of the soldiers tilts his head. “David and Goliath?”

“That’s the one,” Clint says, and he leans down in a single smooth motion, picking up a rock and ailing the guy right between the eyes. It’s not enough to knock him out, but it’s enough to make him stumble back, cursing loudly as his hand comes up to his forehead. And in the ensuing moment of confusion, Clint sprints forward and tackles him to the ground.

There’s a protest from his generally broken body, but it’s muted underneath the pounding of his heart, and the flash of strength suddenly bursting through him. He rolls back to his feet in a semi-graceful motion and fires a burst at the rest of them, making them scatter and dive for cover. “Barnes!”

“Do you have a plan?” Barnes asks, suddenly appearing next to him, firing as well as they back towards the helicopter, ducking behind a transformer. It sparks as bullets hit it. “Any kind of a plan?”

“We’re gonna take that.” Clint gestures at the helicopter. He checks the clip with a scowl. Only a few more shots left, go fucking figure.

Barnes pokes his head out and fires twice. “The pilot’s dead, and I can’t fly it.”

“I can.”

“You can?”

“I can fly anything.” Clint fires another shot, desperately wishing he had his bow. “Just get me in the seat.”

“I can do—”

Clint doesn’t get to hear the end of that sentence. A massive explosion rips through the air, the concussive wave blowing them both backwards. He only barely manages to right himself enough in time to grab the edge of the roof as he falls off it, nearly dislocating his shoulder in the process. “Ow, fuck—”

“Barton!” he hears, and looks down in time to see Barnes sprawled on the secondary roof underneath him, face bloody and eyes dazed. It’s not a long drop, so he lets go, falling the five feet or so and rolling with the impact.

“Chopper blew up,” he says, reaching over and grabbing Barnes. “Plan B, then, come on.” He tugs Barnes to his feet. “We gotta move, Barnes, let’s go!”

Barnes reluctantly gets up, wiping blood out of his eyes. His forehead is gashed open, the blood sluggishly oozing. “Move where?”

“I don’t know,” Clint says, pulling him towards the far edge. “But anywhere’s better than here.” A hail of bullets strikes the gravel beside him, and he yelps, dragging Barnes behind a nearby air handler. “Case in point.”

“We should keep going down,” Barnes says, checking his clip. “I only have ten shots left. You?”

“None.” Clint shows his empty hands. “Lost it in the blast.” He’s usually good about holding onto his weapons, but he didn’t really have a choice with that one.

“I lost my radio,” Barnes says, touching by his ear. Clint double-checks his own hearing aids on instinct. “Doesn’t matter. They know. Go to the ladder—” he points to the opposite end of the roof “—and I’ll lay down covering fire.”

Clint doesn’t argue. They’re probably not shooting to kill, but between the two of them, better Barnes take a bullet than him. Vampires heal much faster than humans.

_You’re not fucking human_ , he reminds himself, and crouches down, glancing at Barnes. “Ready?”

“Go,” Barnes says, and Clint goes. He still doesn’t have shoes, and the gravel is uncomfortable to run across, but he at least manages it without getting shot. Barnes follows him a moment after, uncannily accurate with a handgun even as he’s moving. Clint counts five shots before he follows him down the ladder, hopping onto another roof.

“Around the side,” Clint says, gesturing to the raised section in front of them. “We gotta find a window or something, get back in. I don’t think we can roof it all the way down. If we get back in—“

“If we get back in, they’ll know. They might have cameras.”

“It’s our best shot,” Clint says, peering around the corner. “They know where we are now. At least inside has cover. We can always get into the ceilings, or move through the ventilation systems or whatever. But up here, we’re sitting ducks. _Might_ have cameras is better than getting shot.”

As if to punctuate his words, another barrage of gunfire splits the air. It doesn’t touch them, but it’s clearly enough to push Barnes into action. “Fine,” he says, and punches the closest window with his metal arm. The glass shatters. “Go.”

“Shit—wait—I don’t have shoes,” Clint says, looking at the shards of glass everywhere. “And I don’t feel like being John McClane today—”

“For fucks sake,” Barnes mutters, and shoves the gun in his thigh holster. Then he reaches over and grabs Clint, picking him up and throwing him over his shoulder like Clint doesn’t weigh a damn thing. 

Barnes awkwardly clambers through the window, then dumps him down onto the floor out of range of the glass. “There.”

“Prince Charming you are not,” Clint tells him, looking around. They’re in some kind of office. There’s a desk littered with yellowed papers, and file folders in the bookcase at the side of the room. Opposite the desk is a bunch of wall hangings, most of them awards to a Dr. Percival Ennis.

“This way,” Barnes says, moving past him. He opens the door, gun up, and motions Clint out. “This is the fifth floor. We need to find an elevator again.”

“We need to find a map,” Clint says. “This is an old hospital. They probably built different sections at different times. Five bucks says the elevators even don’t all go down to the first floor. We got lucky with the one we took earlier. Most old hospitals I’ve been in don’t do that. I once busted out of a place that needed three different elevator banks to get down from the seventh floor to the first. That was wild.”

Barnes snorts. “Why were you breaking out?”

“They were keeping me under observation. I...disagreed.” He shrugs. “I was thirteen, didn’t have insurance, and they were gonna call my parents. Except I didn’t have those either, which would’ve meant foster system again, and orphanages, and honestly I just wanted to get back to the damn circus.” He shrugs again, aware on some level how much information he’s giving, but he’s too wound up from whatever Barnes gave him, and it’s more effort to hold things back. “So I broke out.”

Barnes is staring at him, eyes slightly wide. “That…”

“I know,” Clint says. “My life is wild and varied.”

“That’s one phrase for it,” Barnes mutters. He pauses at a door as they walk past, then pushes it open. “Come here.”

“Why?”

“Supply storage.” He motions Clint through the door. “Might have shoes for you.”

“Hey, that would be great. I’m sure you’re planning on punching more windows.”

Barnes rolls his eyes. “If I have to.”

The room is small, big enough for a cart and a couple of metal shelves along the back wall. There’s Hydra uniforms, and boots, which Clint immediately tries on, only to find they’re too big. He’s not a small guy himself, but these could be easily used as boats instead of shoes. Clint walks ten steps in a pair, then shakes his head and pulls them off. “Useless. I’d rather go barefoot.”

“Could always steal a pair off someone,” Barnes says.

“It’s fine. I’ll just keep channeling my inner John McClane. No big deal.” Clint kicks the shoes aside, then gestures at the door. “Come on. We still gotta find a map or something.”

“Who’s John McClane?” Barnes asks a moment later, following him out the door. They still haven’t seen anyone. It’s a little unnerving, but he’s also getting the sense this is a big hospital. Maybe they just don’t have the manpower.

“Main character in _Die Hard_ ,” he says. “Great Christmas movie. We’ll watch it later.”

Barnes gives him a funny look, and Clint realizes what he said half a moment later. “I mean,” he starts again, and then stops, because he’s not sure what to follow it up with. He still doesn’t really trust Barnes, is still definitely annoyed with him for letting Clint rot downstairs for a week, but also—

But also that part of him that wants Barnes around is still going strong, and the idea of doing something later with him is making it ping with all kinds of happy feelings. Clint scowls at himself, then shakes his head.

“Highly recommend,” he says after a moment. “If you’re looking for a movie—that’s one of the greats.”

“Noted,” Barnes says in a quiet voice. “But let’s get out of here first.”

“No shit,” Clint sighs, turning another corner. Still nobody around. “What, did you think I was gonna set up a sheet and a movie projector here? Educating you on pop culture can wait until we’re not in danger of acute lead poisoning.”

Barnes smiles. “Wouldn’t have been surprised. With you, I’m learning to expect anything.”

Aww. That almost makes him feel warm and fuzzy inside. Except for, of course, the fact that Barnes fucking _betrayed_ him—

Clint swallows down the bitter feelings. It’s something he’s going to have to explore more later, because on one hand, he’s pissed off, but on the other, he’s also aware that he’s not being entirely fair to Barnes right now. If Hydra is the abusive husband, then Barnes is the housewife who keeps sticking around, hoping something will change. And _that—_

Well, that’s a scenario Clint’s _intimately_ familiar with. He could practically write the damn script for it.

He shakes the thought off. “You’re the one doing unexpected things,” he says. “I mean—I had a busy schedule of torture and not sleeping today. I was not planning on running around an old hospital with you.”

Barnes shrugs a little. “I wasn’t either,” he says. “But I overheard some of the techs talking about putting you in the Chair tomorrow, and I just—I couldn’t—“ He stops, frowning. “I didn’t—you keep _fighting_. I don’t want them to take that. I don’t want to see that.”

“That’s the memory machine, right? The one you were telling me about?”

“Yes. It takes what you are, makes you blank so they can fill you with things they want.” He pauses at the next junction, looking up at Clint. “I couldn’t let them do that to you. I _wouldn’t_.” Another hesitation, and then, “I think...I think you’re everything I was, in the beginning. They told me I used to fight. Told me I used to fight and scream and rage.” He rubs his forehead. “I don’t want to watch you become blank. Relearning to fight...it’s hard. It hurts.”

“It’s worth it,” Clint says carefully. “I mean—look what you’re doing now. This is a good step.”

“I know.” He rubs his forehead. “Come on. I think this way—”

There’s finally voices echoing from what he’s pretty sure is the other end of the hall, which is almost relieving. Clint was starting to think this was too easy. “Here,” he murmurs, and tugs Barnes through another door. It’s yet another hallway—this place is a goddamn maze, seriously—with all the usual flickering lights and general sense of grubbiness.

They walk past a room labeled _Linens_ and Clint pauses, then reaches for the knob. “Idea.”

“Good idea?”

“Maybe.” Clint opens the door and steps in. “Could tie some of these together? Make a rope.”

Barnes sounds doubtful. “I don’t know how sturdy those sheets are? This place is pretty old. They might disintegrate.”

“Hmm.” Clint runs his hand over some of them, but Barnes is right. They’re pretty gross, and when he tries to pick one up, it practically crumbles in his hand. “Shit. Okay. Where even are we?”

“In the hospital? No idea.”

“No, in general. What city? They drugged me for most of the way here.”

“Oh. Outskirts of Los Angeles. This is an abandoned hospital. Hydra bought it under a shell company; they’ve been set up here for a few months. They keep everything moving so there’s less chance of getting noticed. We were in Colorado at this point last year.”

Clint nods. “Any phones around? We could call Nat, get some backup.”

“They’ll be tapped, if they even work. Not worth it.”

“Dammit.” They leave the linen closet and creep back through the hallway, finally finding another set of stairs going down. It’s only to the second floor, but it’s still progress.

“How are you feeling?” Barnes asks as they move down the steps.

“Still kinda wound up,” Clint admits. “Less...intense, I think. Is it wearing off?”

“Might be. I’m not sure.” Barnes holds up a hand, pausing. Clint pauses too, and then he hears it—the quiet whisper of bodies moving through the stairwell. Stealthy, but it’s hard to go down stairs completely silent.

_Door_ , Clint mouths, and Barnes nods, pushing the door open. They slip through, easing it shut behind them. This door dumps them into what looks like a waiting room, with chairs and benches sitting around. A few abandoned hospital gurneys are under the window at the opposite side of the room, looking eerie in the sunlit streams of dust motes. Outside is a concrete parking lot with a few cars parked in it. Clint thinks he recognizes the van they brought him in. 

“Okay,” he whispers. “So this looks like somewhere with public access. Five bucks says there’s another way to the ground floor from here. Should be outta here in a few minutes.” He takes a deep breath, trying not to feel hopeful. The mission isn’t over until they’re out and away from here. And given his penchant for bad luck and trouble...

_One step at a time_ , he tells himself. “What do you think?”

Barnes nods again, gesturing them away from the stairwell. “That way,” he murmurs, pointing at the exit sign above another set of doors. It’s barely open, half hanging off its hinges. “If we can get to the ground I think I can steal us a car.”

He pauses as he opens the door, eyebrows furrowing. Then he’s backing up, shaking his head. “They’re coming that way too.”

“What?” But after a moment, Clint hears it too—more footsteps, and shadows moving on the wall in the distant stairwell. People climbing up.

“Shit,” he says, looking around as they back up into the room. “Uh.” People coming up. People coming down. They’ve pretty effectively cut themselves off.

“We should’ve stayed outside,” Barnes mutters, looking worried. “I don’t think there’s any exits back that way. We trapped ourselves. There’s no way out.”

“Don’t be so pessimistic,” Clint says, shaking off his own thoughts. “There’s always a way out.” He looks around. “Can you bust the window, maybe carry me down? Like _Twilight_ , but less awful.”

Barnes shakes his head. “I’m not strong enough.”

“You carried me through the window—”

“Short trip. I can’t get us down two stories. Not safely.” His eyes are almost completely red now, and while he doesn’t look quite as strung-out as he did at the ice cream shop, he definitely has a distinctive pallor.

“Can have mine,” Clint says, offering a wrist. “Real quick.”

“No. Your blood—it affects me differently. I can’t have it.” He tightens his hand around his gun. “You should go in the ceiling, or the vents. Like you said. I’ll hold them off. Take out as many as I can.”

“Fuck that. You came this far. I’m not leaving you behind.” His eyes fall on a nearby gurney, and then on the window across the way. “Okay. Idea part two.”

“Idea part two?”

Clint grabs a gurney, testing its wheels. It rolls straight, if not a little squeakily, and he nods. “We’ll just make our own exit.”

Barnes catches on quick, understanding and anxiety flashing across his face in equal measures. “This is a terrible idea.”

“I didn’t say it was a good one.”

“We’re going to die.”

“Nah.” Clint grins, the adrenaline already trickling through him. “I mean—maybe, but what’s life without a little risk?”

Barnes doesn’t look convinced.

“Look,” Clint adds, glancing over his shoulder. “Either we do this, and things _might_ go wrong, or we stay here, and things _definitely_ go wrong. I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sick of the Hydra Bed and Breakfast. I want to get out of here, sleep in a real bed, and eat decent food.” He rattles the gurney. “Stay if you want, but I’m going.”

“Oh god,” Barnes mutters, but he grabs his own gurney. “This is the worst idea I’ve ever heard. Ever.”

“Can vampires swear to god?” Clint asks. “That doesn’t burn your mouth or anything?” Barnes rolls his eyes, the trepidation suddenly vanishing for annoyance, and Clint snickers. “Do you regret meeting me yet?”

“No,” Barnes says immediately, serious and low. He looks at Clint, a depth of emotion running through his eyes, and Clint’s breath catches in his throat at the sheer sincerity of it. “Not at all. Not even for a second.”

Clint wants to say something sarcastic, but his words stick too, and he’s not even sure what he _would_ say. After a moment, he just gives a jerky little nod and gestures at the window. “Shall we?”

“Here we go,” Barnes mutters, and together, they shove the gurneys towards the glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://clintscoffeepot.tumblr.com/). Thank you!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But as he lets this arrow fly, watches it lodge itself in the front grill of the car, he suddenly wonders if there’s another explanation. He’s not magic, as far as he knows, at least not like the fae he’s read about. He can’t make sparks appear, can’t create things from thin air, can’t weave glamours and illusions. But maybe...maybe this is his thing. Maybe the reason he’s so uncannily good is because of who he is, not because of what he’s done.

Clint is no stranger to doing stupid things. He’s been a risk-taker since he was old enough to walk, constantly seeking out high places and adrenaline rushes. By all rights, he should be dead ten times over. _You have no regard for your personal safety,_ Natasha tells him all the time, and he knows in his heart that it’s the truth. He wouldn’t call it a death wish, but he dances _real_ close to the edge. 

This, though—this is definitely on the high end of the scale, in terms of risky things he’s done. He’s jumped off buildings before, but he’s always had grappling arrows, or friends with flying capabilities, or some other way to get down safely. He’s never dropped thirty-five feet to the ground with nothing but an old hospital gurney to break the fall.

It feels like an eternity, but Clint knows it’s only a few seconds at most. He has enough time to thing _oh god oh god this was so dumb_ and then the gurney is smashing into the lawn below. Miraculously, it lands on its wheels, jarring every bone in his body as the impact reverberates through the frame. He bounces once, twice, and then the thing flips over, dumping him onto the grass. It’s painful as hell—which means a lot considering how drugged up he is—and he nearly throws up, curling into fetal position as his entire body protests.

“Get up,” says a low voice, and Clint barely turns his head to see Barnes kneeling above him. He’s bleeding too, dark blood dripping from his nose, and there’s a bruise already forming on his forehead. “We need to move. There’s no way they didn’t notice that.” There’s shouts from above, and he winces. “Yep. They noticed.”

“Right,” Clint says, and grits his teeth as he pushes himself to his feet, vision almost blacking out. He leans on Barnes for a few stumbling steps before he remembers how to walk again, managing an awkward, half-stumbling run as they move towards the parking lot. “Jesus. Okay. Worst idea.”

“We made it,” Barnes says, and he sounds shocked. “I really thought—”

“Think later,” Clint says, pointing at the closest van. “We need to go. Good luck in one place means bad luck in another. Let’s go before the bad luck shows up with guns.”

Barnes sounds vaguely amused. “That so?”

Despite everything happening, Clint can’t help but toss a grin his way. “Stick around,” he says. “You’ll find out.”

“I’d like that,” Barnes says softly, and Clint kind of wants to push that train of thought further, but then there’s a commotion from the front doors only a hundred yards away.

“Run,” Clint says, which is really just a waste of breath. Barnes is already sprinting, so he reaches the van a few steps ahead of Clint. He smashes the window, unlocks the door, and jumps in. By the time Clint gets there, he’s already starting the engine. Clint yanks open the side door and jumps in. “That was fast.”

“Some moron left the keys in the ignition,” Barnes says, and pushes it into reverse, nearly tossing Clint back out the open door. Something skitters across the floor at his feet as they spin, and it takes him a moment to realize it’s an arrow.

“You gotta be kidding me,” he mutters, and turns around, searching the back of the van. There’s a crate lashed to one of the benches, unlocked, and he opens it. There’s a few things in here—some extra bullets, a couple guns, and—

“Definitely morons,” he calls up to Barnes, lifting his bow out, his quiver following a second later. The bow’s a little banged up, and they’d collapsed it wrong, but he knows how to fix that. He keeps tools in a little compartment of his quiver just for this purpose.

He fixes it within thirty seconds, bracing himself against the turns Barnes is making, and tests the string before grabbing one of his arrows. Then he climbs back up into the front seat, doing his best to ignore how much all his bones hate him right now. “Okay,” he says, lowering the window on the passenger side. “They following us?”

“Yes.”

“Awesome.” He takes a deep breath, then sets the quiver on the seat. He sticks an arrow in his mouth and maneuvers himself out the window. “Hand me more when I ask.”

“I’m driving!”

“Just do it!” He nocks it, pulling back on the string. They’re already merging onto a highway, the flow of traffic increasing around them, but it’s easy enough for him to pick out their pursuers. He squints against the sunlight, then releases the arrow, watching with satisfaction as it zips through the air and sticks on the hood of one of the cars.

A moment later, the tip of it explodes. The force of it is enough to tear a hole through the car and into the engine, and the whole car flips over, nearly hitting a nearby sedan. Clint winces, silently apologizing to the family inside. It’s not ideal, shooting here. Too many cars, too many people.

“Nice shot!” Barnes says, just barely audible over the rush of wind in Clint’s ears. He grins anyway and sticks his hand through the window. An arrow hits his palm, and he pulls it back up, nocking it. It’s hard to stay steady up here, but he does his best, jamming his legs between the door and the seat to make sure he stays put. Last thing he needs is to fall off onto the highway while going ninety miles an hour. Half-fae or not, he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t survive that.

“Get the black car!” Barnes yells up to him, and Clint takes aim. He sees it a moment later, swerving around a nearby semi. He’s not sure who’s driving—the glass is too dark—but the window’s lowering on it, and a guy’s poking his head out with a semi-automatic in both hands—

Clint doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t have to. The car is swerving, weaving in and out of traffic, but that doesn’t matter. He _knows_ where it’s going to be, knows where to aim, how much to pull back, what angle he needs to fire at.

Tony had asked him once, how he shoots so accurately. “There’s got to be something you’re doing,” he’d said—not accusing, but blunt, an incredulous tone to his voice after watching Clint breeze through his obstacle course without missing a single shot. “Nobody is just that good.”

“I am,” Clint had said simply, and then had shot down all four flying targets on the range, just to show off a little. He’s never been able to explain it, what he does. He just _knows_.

In the past, he’s tried to chalk it up to a number of things. Training—god knows he does a shit ton of it. He has to, if he’s going to keep up with super-soldiers and guys in suits of armor. He doesn’t have a choice. Experience—he’s been shooting since he was old enough to pull a string. Talent—yeah, okay, he’s got that too, got it in spades if he’s honest with himself.

But as he lets this arrow fly, watches it lodge itself in the front grill of the car, he suddenly wonders if there’s another explanation. He’s not _magic_ , as far as he knows, at least not like the fae he’s read about. He can’t make sparks appear, can’t create things from thin air, can’t weave glamours and illusions. But maybe...maybe this is his thing. Maybe the reason he’s so uncannily good is because of who he is, not because of what he’s done.

The thought is kind of troubling, in a way. He’s worked hard to get here. He’s put in the hours and the effort, and the thought that maybe none of that mattered at all—

The arrow explodes, sending a mass of grey putty all over the engine block, a wave of it cresting up to the windshield. It’s not as impressive as the explosion, but the car still swerves, sending the initial blast of gunfire wide. Clint ducks anyway, reaching in for another arrow as two more cars converge on them through a gap in the traffic.

He glances ahead. They’re still on the highway, but there’s a bridge in the distance, a concrete overpass that they’re heading towards, the exit just barely visible. It’s maybe a minute away.

“Idea part three,” he says, ducking back in the car. He’s starting to get a little woozy now, the aches and pains starting to make themselves known with more intensity. He’s going to crash soon, and he’s pretty sure it’s going to be _spectacular_. They need to end this sooner rather than later.

Barnes grimaces—which is probably fair. “Now what?”

“Can you take the exit after this one?”

“Why?”

“There’s another semi ahead of us.” Clint points. “If we can get in front of that, I think I can turn it, make it block off the road, cut them off. We take that exit, get on the bridge, get off from there. We need to ditch this van, call the Avengers, get some backup.” In the distance, he hears sirens, and he winces. “And all of that needs to happen real fucking fast. Before we throw more civilians into the mix.”

Barnes grips the wheel tighter. “Are you sure we can trust them? Your friends?”

“Yes,” Clint says immediately. “I—they’re my team, Barnes. I would trust them with my life. I _have_ trusted them with my life.” He tries not to think about how he also trusted Rumlow and Rollins, once upon a time. _If nothing else, Nat’s fine. You can always trust Nat._

“Okay,” Barnes says. “Can you do the semi thing without...” He gestures at the traffic around them. “You know. Killing people?”

“Yes.” He’s not entirely sure, honestly, but he’s hoping. “I think. I’m just gonna...do something. I don’t know. Just get me in front of it.” He pokes his head back out the window, then ducks back in as a bullet whizzes past his face. “Whoops. Can you also maybe go faster?”

“You wanna drive?” Barnes growls, but he slips through a gap narrow enough to make Clint’s heart race, and then does it again twice over. It gives him enough of a window to climb back up, taking two arrows with him. He looses them both at the closest car. One of them’s an ordinary one, and it just bounces off, but the other one shatters the windshield with a screech of noise.

“Sonic,” Clint mutters, turning his attention to the other cars. One of them is close enough to have a clear line of fire, and the guy shooting raises his machine gun.

Without warning, Barnes slams on the brakes and moves over two lanes. Clint very nearly drops the bow and falls off the window, managing at the last second to avoid doing either of those things. “Careful!” he yells, gripping the doorframe and ducking down a little. “You trying to kill me?”

“You do your job, I’ll do mine,” Barnes snaps as he moves back over to the right, cutting it close right in front of the semi. The deep blast of the horn makes Clint wince, fighting the urge to turn down his hearing aids.

He fires an arrow at the guy who was shooting at him instead, then takes advantage of the semi briefly blocking them to grab another handful from the quiver. After a quick look through them, he nocks an explosive one, then leans out a little more, studying the truck. This is going to be close. Even if he does it just right, it’s going to be close.

“I’m sorry,” he says, an apology to everyone on the road. Then he looses the arrow, aiming for one of the front wheels.

It blows in a spectacular fashion, and just as he’d hoped, the truck wobbles and lurches. The driver reacts quicker than he’d anticipated, but it doesn’t really make a difference. The back of the trailer still jackknifes into the road, perfectly blocking all four lanes as it slides. Clint keeps watching as Barnes takes the exit, the car moving up onto the ramp. The two other cars that were following them are effectively cut off, at least, and it doesn’t look like anyone’s on fire or injured.

“Think it worked,” he says, slipping back into the seat, a hiss of pain escaping him. _Shit’s definitely wearing off._

Barnes nods, eyes on the road. “You’re good,” he says.

Clint shrugs. “I’m okay.”

“No, you’re—” Barnes shakes his head. “No. You’re _really_ good.” He gestures at the bow. “Where was that?”

“Under the benches in the back. Morons left it in here.” He runs a hand over the risers. “One of my backup ones. The draw’s a little off. Not my favorite.”

“You still hit fast-moving targets with arrows.” Barnes sounds impressed. “That’s...really incredible.”

“Yeah,” Clint says absently, suddenly thinking about his concerns from earlier. “Well. I’m good for some things.”

Barnes doesn’t comment further. “We should lose the van,” he says. “They’re probably tracking it.” After a moment, he adds, “We should leave your bow, too. They might have done something to it.”

“It shot fine.”

“Safer to leave it.”

Clint scowls, but it’s a good point. It was either very lucky that his bow was in here, or it was on purpose. It’s definitely safer to leave it.

“Fine,” he says. “Take the next exit. Let’s find somewhere to leave this.”

Barnes does. They end up ditching the van in a parking lot, keys still in it. Clint breaks off a couple of his fancier arrowheads and tucks them into a pocket. “Explosives,” he says when Barnes raises an eyebrow. “Among other things. Not getting caught off guard again.”

They walk for a while, mixing in the crowds. Eventually they find a cafe, and Barnes sits Clint down at an outside table, hands him a coffee, and says, “Drink this. Wait here.”

“Where are you going?” Clint asks, but he doesn’t say anything, just disappears around a corner. Clint tucks his dirty bare feet under the chair and tries to look inconspicuous—which would probably be easier if he didn’t also look like he just lost a couple rounds with an angry gorilla. Fuck, he _hurts_. The stuff is definitely worn off now, and he’s torn between falling asleep or curling into a ball and screaming. He hasn’t felt this shitty since his last mission.

Barnes returns after fifteen nerve-wracking minutes. He’s dressed in jeans and a red henley now, a hooded jacket thrown over the top of it, and his admittedly greasy hair tucked under a baseball cap. “Here,” he says. “This is for you.”

Clint takes the bag and looks in, then looks up at Barnes. “What, am I not good enough to go shopping with you?”

“I was in a hurry,” Barnes says. “And you look like you’re about to pass out. Also, they had a sign about no shoes.” He gestures to the bag. “Go inside. Change.”

Clint takes the bag and goes into the cafe, beelining for the bathroom. It’s just basic clothes, but they fit him perfectly, and it’s nice to get out of the ones he’s been wearing for days. _He_ still doesn’t smell good, but it’s a step up from before, at least. He balls up the old stuff and tosses it into the trash, then pulls the shoes on.

Barnes nods as he comes back out. “Everything fit okay? I was guessing.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, collapsing back into a chair. His eyes close of their own accord. “It’s great, thanks.”

“Stay awake,” Barnes says. “I know you’re tired. Just a little further to go.”

He’s long past tired, at this point. “Where are we going?”

“A place I know.”

“Is it safe?”

“Should be.” Barnes stands up, offers him a hand. “Come on.”

Clint’s barely conscious by the time they get there. Barnes basically has to carry him through the door. He rouses himself enough to notice the surroundings—a ballet gym, he thinks, based on the bars and the windows.

Barnes helps him down a side hall, then pushes open a door. “Stairs,” he warns, and Clint manages to gather himself enough to go down them. The idea of going into a basement makes his stomach churn a little, but it’s at least well-lit and there’s no ominous screams echoing around. Just the faint strains of classical music from somewhere distant.

“I got shot on a mission here once,” Barnes murmurs, helping him over to a cot tucked into the corner. “The woman who runs it helped me. I—the handlers don’t know. I never told them. The memory isn’t very clear, but I knew it when I saw it.”

It’s a shitty mattress, but it’s better than a metal slab. Clint rolls onto his back, looking up at Barnes. 

“I know you don’t trust me,” Barnes says softly.

“I don’t know what to think about you,” Clint says, forcing the words out past his exhaustion, which is true. “But if I wake up in a damn cell again, I’m gonna kill you.”

“That’s fair,” Barnes murmurs, and pulls a chair over. “Sleep. I won’t let anything happen.”

“Better fucking not,” Clint mumbles, and gives into the pull of unconsciousness.

His dreams are odd—full of flickering lights and screams and visions of skeletons ballet dancing to classical music. Not nightmares, just...weird.

He’s alone, when he wakes up. It takes him a minute to put things together, arrange the previous events in his head. There’s a needle in the back of his hand, and his whole body feels warm. _Painkillers_ , he thinks, blinking slowly, forcing his vision to focus. There’s a makeshift IV pole hanging by the cot, and a blanket haphazardly tossed over him.

He turns his head, searching through the dim basement light. Barnes is in the chair still, and for all intents and purposes looks to be sleeping. Clint licks his dry lips, studying Barnes’ face. He looks younger, when he’s asleep. Less tense, less scary, less...everything.

Clint knows he should be angry with him—all the broken bones and bruises are telling him so—but he can’t really find it in himself to be mad. He’s been where Barnes was, he _knows_ what it’s like to feel helpless in the face of insurmountable odds. He knows what kind of strength and courage it takes to look a situation like that in the face and still make the decision to walk out. 

So no. He’s not angry. He’s relieved, mostly, that Barnes is still here, relieved and _happy_ —

Barnes’ eyes snap open, the change from relaxed to terrified almost instantaneous. He blinks once, then sits up straight, looking around as if he thinks someone’s going to yell at him—

“Hey,” Clint croaks, maneuvering himself upright a little.

Barnes sees him, then, and relaxes again, some of the fear bleeding from him. “You’re awake. How are you feeling?”

“Good,” Clint says. “Hungry.” He coughs. “Thirsty.”

“Here.” Barnes hands him a water bottle, and he cracks it with clumsy hands, taking a few careful sips. “How’s that?”

“Better.” He holds up the hand with the needle. “You got a thing about drugging me?”

“It helps with the crash,” Barnes says. “Trust me.”

Clint takes his word for it, assuming if Barnes wanted him dead, he’d have left him in the hospital. So he shrugs and takes another drink of water. “How long?”

“Ten hours, roughly.” His eyes are blue now. “You needed it.”

“Yeah, I know.” He does feel a hell of a lot better. “Where’d the stuff come from?”

“Amelia. Woman who runs the ballet school above us,” he clarifies when Clint gives him a confused look. “She helped me last time. I gave her money and a list of supplies. Better neither of us show our face until backup gets here.” He hands Clint a cell phone. “So call your friends.”

Clint turns the phone over in his hands. “What about you,” he says after a moment.

Barnes tilts his head. “What about me?”

“Do you want me to tell them you’re with me,” Clint says. “Or do you want to leave?”

“I don’t understand.”

Clint sits up a little more. “I’m trying to give you a choice,” he says. “Which—and correct me if I’m wrong here—isn’t something you’ve had a lot of.” He holds up the phone. “I can call my friends, and tell them to pick up _just_ me. Or I can tell them we’re both here.”

Barnes looks stunned, like the idea never occurred to him before. He sits heavily in the chair. “But...what would I do?”

“Whatever you want,” Clint says. “I don’t know. Get a job. See the world. Learn to juggle.” He shrugs. “Figure out your favorite kinds of blood. Be your own person—your own vampire, I guess.”

Barnes hesitates for a moment. “But...I need you,” he says. “I—don’t know how to be a...person.”

Clint bites his lip. “So maybe that’s the reason you should,” he says, and it hurts a lot more than he thought it would to say that.

“But...” Barnes looks lost, almost bereft, and Clint’s heart twists a little.

“Look,” he says softly. “I’m happy to help—and if you want to stay, I will. But I can’t be a person for you. I’m not going to tell you what to do, and where to go, and how to live. I can’t—I’m not Hydra. I’m not taking their place. If you come with me, I want it to be because you _want_ it, and not because you feel like you have to.”

“You offered, before.” Barnes sounds almost petulant. “On the beach. You said I could come with you.”

“I still mean it,” Clint says. “I just—I need you to know you have a choice.”

Barnes studies him for a long time, long enough that Clint starts squirming under his steady gaze. He doesn’t say anything, though. Just keeps waiting.

“I want it,” he says eventually, nodding like he’s decided something. “You’re not replacing Hydra. I don’t want you to. I don’t think I need that.” He reaches out and adjusts the IV line. “But I would like to stay. With you. If you’ll let me.”

Clint smiles. It hurts a little, his split lip stinging, his healing nose painful even through the drugs. But he couldn’t stop it if he tried. “I do,” he says. “I really, really do.”

“And I’m sorry,” Barnes says. “About not helping you, the first time. I wanted to. I just...couldn’t.”

“I don’t blame you.” On impulse, Clint reaches over and takes his hand. “I mean—it was unbelievably shitty of you to do that. But like...I get it. I know what it’s like.”

“You do, huh?” Barnes sounds skeptical.

“To feel like you owe everything to someone else, even if they’re awful to you? To feel like you’re trapped where you are and everything you do just brings you right back to where you started? To take two steps forward and ten steps back?” Clint holds his gaze. “Yeah, Barnes. I know that real fucking well.”

Barnes is staring at him, an unreadable expression on his face. “Oh,” is all he says, soft and shaken. “I—oh.”

“Life’s a bitch,” Clint says. “No one’s immune from it. Point is, we keep trying to do our best. Try and make some good in the world. Maybe someday, something good will happen because of something I did. That’s about all I can hope for.”

Barnes smiles a little. “Something good _did_ happen,” he murmurs, and then he’s leaning forward, pressing a gentle kiss to Clint’s mouth.

“That was so fucking sappy,” Clint says when he pulls back, but he’s grinning too hard to really make the words have any weight. “Aren’t you supposed to be tough and grumpy? What happened to the angry vampire I met in a bar last week?”

“He met _you_ ,” Barnes says, grinning right back. “You should be proud, really. You know how many years Hydra’s spent turning me into that? And now after a week with you, I’m...this.”

“I like this,” Clint says. “I like it a lot. Not that the angry, bitey, toss-you-around-like-a-sack-of-potatoes thing wasn’t hot—because it totally was—but this is nice too. Less detrimental to my general health.”

Barnes snorts. “Duly noted.” He gestures to the phone. “Call your friend.”

For what feels like the hundredth time, Clint dials Natasha’s number. It rings six times, and for a moment, he’s afraid she’s not going to pick up. He’s not sure what’ll happen in that case. He doesn’t have any other numbers memorized, which seems like a poor life choice on his part.

But she picks up, and he breathes a sigh of relief. “Hi, Nat.”

“I’m getting tired of this,” she says, and the words would be biting if they didn’t sound so relieved as well. “I don’t know if I want to hug you or put a bullet in you.”

“You’ve done both,” he says. “I’d prefer the hug, if I get a choice.”

“I’ll think about it.” She sighs, and he can almost see her expression. “Where are you?”

“Uh.” He pulls the phone away from his ear. “Where are we?”

Barnes gives him the address, and Clint relays that to Natasha. There’s a moment of silence, and then she says, “Five hours. If you vanish this time—”

“I won’t,” he promises. “I’ll be here.”

“You’d better be,” she says, and the line goes dead.

Clint sets it on the bed. “She’s coming.”

“All of them?”

“I don’t know. Probably at least her and Steve.” He sighs and rubs his face. “They’re not going to trust you. Fair warning.”

“I don’t expect them to.” He leans back in his chair, looking tired as hell. “Are you going to tell them? About being half-fae?”

Clint nods. “Nat already knows, I think. And the rest of them...” He trails off, thinking. They’re probably not going to be terribly shocked—half the team is supernatural—but it’s still weighing on him a bit. He puts in _so much work_ , trains and practices constantly. He doesn’t want them attributing everything he’s ever done to this—to being supernatural. Not that he thinks they would, but...

“Are you okay?”

“Just thinking,” Clint says, and tries to explain it. He doesn’t do a great job—it doesn’t even make sense to him, really—but Barnes seems to get it, nodding along.

“You’re still talented,” he says when Clint’s done. “You’re still competent, and you’re resourceful as hell—I wouldn’t have ever thought to jump out the window like that.” He laughs a little. “And the amount of times you kept slipping me—honestly, I was starting to wonder if I’d ever catch you at all.” He shrugs. “You’re good, Barton. You’re so damn good it almost scares me. Being half-fae might give you an edge, but the rest of it? That’s straight you.”

Clint’s face is warm, and he’s glad the basement is dim. He’s never known what to do with compliments, especially not ones like that. It does make him feel better, though, eases the gnawing feeling inside him. “You’re good too,” he says. “You kept finding me.” He pauses. “How _did_ you keep finding me?”

“I’m...not sure,” Barnes admits. “I lost you good in St. Louis. Kansas City was a guess. So was the RV—there were a number of trucks you could’ve gotten on. I just...” He shrugs, a pensive look on his face. “I don’t know. It just seemed right. I’d call it a gut feeling, but it was more like a...magnet. Like I was being pulled to you.”

“Huh,” Clint says, rubbing his chin. It sounds uncomfortably like destiny, what Barnes is describing. He doesn’t much like that. “I don’t—that’s kind of weird.”

Barnes is quiet for a moment, and then he says, “I think it might’ve been you.”

“What? How?”

“I told you my name.” He glances over at Clint. “In the hotel, that first time. I told you.”

“So?”

“If you tell a fae your name—”

“But I’m only half-fae—”

“Right, but I think you still have some power—”

Clint shakes his head. “People have told me their names before. No one else has ever stalked me around the U.S.”

“Sometimes abilities need a catalyst,” Barnes says. “Werewolves usually need something to trigger the shift. Succubi and incubi don’t experience their powers until they have sex. Sirens don’t—”

“I get it,” Clint interrupts. “So what was mine?”

“I tried to change you,” Barnes says. “Into a vampire. Maybe that woke something up in you. Triggered fae powers.”

“Oh god,” Clint says. “You sound like a wizard or something. Mystical fae bullshit.” 

Barnes laughs. “Point being. I think maybe you were drawing us together. Like maybe you wanted me to find you.”

Clint raises an eyebrow. “You were trying to turn me into a vampire and take me back to Hydra,” he says. “I definitely did _not_ want you to find me.”

Barnes thinks about it for a moment, expression contemplative. “Then maybe you just wanted to be found,” he finally says, and Clint doesn’t really have a good answer for that one.

They stay in the basement. Barnes pulls the IV, then disappears upstairs, coming back down with more water and two sandwiches. “Amelia’s keeping an eye out,” he says. “Told me everything looks normal. When your friend comes, she’ll send her down here. Eat these. You need them.”

“Amelia sounds nice,” Clint says, tugging the blanket around his shoulders as he sits on the edge of the bed. “You said she helped you before?”

“I made a mistake,” Barnes says. “Got shot with a blessed bullet behind this building. She’s a vampire too, she helped heal me. I was punished for coming back late, but I never told the handlers. I couldn’t—I didn’t want to risk it. Risk them hurting her.”

“Would they have?”

He nods, expression tight. “As punishment. I’m supposed to call them, if I get into trouble. I shouldn’t have taken her help. It was dangerous for both of us.”

“Sounds like you didn’t have a choice,” Clint says, unwrapping his first sandwich. “You know that’s fucked up, right? That they would’ve punished you for it?”

“I know,” Barnes murmurs. “That’s just...how it was.”

“It’s wrong,” Clint says, more fiercely than he intends.

“I know.”

The rest of the meal is in silence. Barnes looks deep in thought, and Clint is too busy eating, much hungrier than he’d realized. When he finishes the sandwiches, Barnes produces a pack of cards, and they spend the next few hours playing poker and other games, passing the time slowly.

They’re in the middle of Go Fish when Barnes suddenly stiffens. “Someone’s coming,” he says, drawing his gun. Clint forces himself up to his feet.

The door opens, spilling light down the metal staircase. Then a familiar voice calls, “You’d better be down here, Barton, or I’m gonna use your antique bows for firewood.”

Clint grins, the trepidation giving way to fondness and excitement. “You wouldn’t dare,” he calls back. He pushes Barnes’ hand down. “That’s Nat. We’re okay.”

Barnes looks wary, but he lowers the gun, eyes on the stairs. There’s the sound of footsteps, and then her familiar face comes into view, worry and tension melting off her the moment she sees Clint standing by the cot.

“So,” she says, coming down the last few steps. “How was your vacation?”

“Sucked,” Clint says, limping forward to pull her into a tight hug. His ribs protest, but he couldn’t imagine doing anything less as he buries his face in her hair and breathes her familiar scent. “Fuck, I missed you.”

“Missed you too,” she murmurs, making no move to let him go. “You ever disappear on me like that again, I’ll kill you.”

“I know.” Clint finally lets go, stepping back to see her face properly. “I know.” He looks over at Steve. “Hey, Cap—”

He stops. Steve is frozen at the bottom of the stairs, eyes fixed on Barnes. He looks white, like he’s seen a ghost, and he’s gripping the metal railing so tightly that it’s creaking under his hand.

“Steve,” Clint says, but Steve doesn’t answer him. Barnes doesn’t say anything either, but his expression is the same—wide-eyed, stunned, nearly motionless in the dim light. The tension between them is almost palpable, and Clint’s not really sure what to do about it. He just stands there awkwardly, looking between the two of them. Even Natasha looks confused, offering a shrug when Clint glances at her for an explanation.

“Hi, Stevie,” Barnes says after a long, long moment. “Been a long time.”

And Steve, in a small, broken, incredulous voice, says, “ _Bucky?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://clintscoffeepot.tumblr.com/). Thank you!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barnes laughs. He’s been doing that a lot more now, Clint’s noticed. The more time they spend together, the more he seems to relax. The circles under his eyes are less pronounced, and his face is starting to lose that haunted, haggard look. He still jumps at sudden noises, and Clint’s caught him doing the thousand-yard stare on more than one occasion, but it really does seem like being here is good for him.

The news that Clint is half-fae is better received than the news that Hydra has apparently been infiltrating SHIELD for decades, and was using their resources to run an underground super soldier program. Nick Fury doesn’t believe either of these things, at first, but when Natasha produces an un-doctored version of his birth certificate, and Thor and Bruce find evidence of Hydra having been at the hospital in L.A., he doesn’t really have a choice. It’s his usual skepticism, Clint knows, but there’s also a hint of a bone-deep sorrow, and Clint knows it must be painful as hell for him to hear this. SHIELD is his baby, in a way, a thing he’s put a lot of work into building, and to hear that so many of his efforts were to help the other side...

Well. Clint would probably feel like shit about it too. He _does_ feel like shit about it—he ran missions too, thousands of ops, and who knows how many of them secretly advanced Hydra? Who knows how many of them were hurting SHIELD instead of helping?

He doesn’t say any of this to Natasha, but he can tell it’s weighing on her too. She at least has things to do, though, and places to be. Clint’s return is kept under tight wraps, which means he’s confined to a small safe-house in Brooklyn. It’s the nicest one he’s ever stayed in, but he barely notices. It’s annoying, the fact that he’s benched now, when they need all hands on deck.

The irony of him saying that doesn’t escape him, but he doesn’t care. It’s the truth.

The only silver lining is that Barnes gets to stay with him. They try to take him, at first, but Clint manages to persuade Fury otherwise. So he has company, at least—someone to talk to, to help him change his bandages and wrap his ribs. And he thinks it’s probably good for Barnes, too. Recovery time is something they both need—physically and mentally. A week of torture isn’t really something he can shake off super easily, not to mention all the other shit he’s been repressing.

The pieces start to come together, at least, questions and answers slowly lining up. Clint learns that Barnes is actually James Buchanan Barnes, also known as Bucky. He learns that Bucky and Steve were inseparable best friends long before they joined the Army. He learns that Bucky fell from a train in 1945, and everyone—Steve included—thought he was dead.

“I don’t know what happened after that,” Steve says. He and Natasha are here for a stopover, the first time Clint’s seen anyone other than Barnes in days. They’re all at the table, hands curled around mugs of coffee and tea. Steve’s on the opposite side from Barnes—Clint can’t think of him as Bucky, not now—looking at him with a sad, distant expression on his face. “I put the Valkyrie in the water a few days later, and then I woke up in this century.”

Barnes is eyeing him right back, looking more exasperated than anything. “I fell,” he says. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Steve looks like a kicked puppy. “I should’ve tried to find you—”

“You thought I was dead,” Barnes says.

“I should’ve known—”

“How could you?”

Steve doesn’t answer that, eyes fixed on his coffee mug.

Natasha puts a hand on his arm. “It’s not your fault,” she says softly, and Steve just nods, still looking broken about it.

“So what happened?” he asks quietly, looking up at Barnes. “After you fell?”

Barnes shrugs. “I don’t remember a lot of it,” he says. “I think they found me in the snow.”

“Hydra,” Steve says in a grim tone. “Right?”

“Yes.” Under the table, he slides his metal hand over Clint’s. Clint turns his own hand, winds their fingers together, and the line of Barnes’ shoulders seems to untense a little. “They...took my memories. Some things I remember very clearly—” he shudders a little, almost involuntary “—but a lot of the early things are missing.”

“Do you remember me?” Natasha asks.

Barnes studies her. “No,” he finally says. “I’m sorry.”

She nods, doesn’t comment any further. Clint’s curious, but there’s a look in her eye that tells him pushing the subject would be a stupid idea. So he lets silence descend on their little group, half-wishing Tony or Thor were here to break it. Even Bruce would be nice to have around, awkwardly making things weird.

But they’re all out on a mission, and so this is it. Just the four of them, sitting around the table in a darkening room, like this is the start to some B-grade horror movie.

“What did they do to you?” Steve asks. “Hydra, I mean.”

Clint sighs. “The hell do you think they did, Steve? Baked him cookies? Taught him underwater basket weaving? _Look_ at him.” He gestures to Barnes. “It’s Hydra, man. You really need shit spelled out?”

Barnes snorts out a laugh. “He has a point,” he says to Steve. “You want to know if they tortured me? The answer is yes. Of course they did. Would you like the specifics?”

“No,” Steve says, and he looks sick. “That’s not what I meant. I just—” He gestures with one hand, then rubs his face. He looks tired as hell, really, and Clint feels a twinge of sympathy. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I meant.”

Barnes’ tone softens a bit. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he says. “Not now. Maybe not ever. I don’t even want to think about them.”

“So what do you want to do?” Natasha asks.

“Breathe,” Barnes says, looking at Clint. “Figure out how to be a person again. Clint’s helping a lot.”

It’s the first time he’s ever heard Barnes say his first name, and Clint likes it so much. “I’m trying,” he says, glancing at Nat. “Since someone thinks I need to stay here.”

“Just for a little longer,” she says. “We’re maneuvering some things into place. When we’re ready, you can make a dramatic entrance back into the fight. Until then, I need you to stay and heal up. Got it?” She glances between the two of them, and in a softer voice adds, “Both of you.”

“Got it,” Clint sighs, which is really all he can do under the subtle warning her face is giving him. “Just a few weeks, right?”

“Hopefully,” Steve says. “But I’m not sure.” He smiles at Clint, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, and after a moment, he looks back over at Barnes. “As soon as we need you, we’ll call. I promise.”

“I can help,” Barnes says. “I know things—”

“You’ve told us what you know,” Steve says. “Trust me, it’s better for you to stay here. Stay out of sight. Rest and recover.”

Natasha pulls something from her pocket, then, and slides it across the table. A piece of paper with numbers on it. “Your brother,” she says. “You should call him.”

So Clint does, a few days later. He hasn’t spoken to Barney in years, but the moment he hears that familiar voice, he can’t help but grin. “Guess what,” he says, leaning back on the couch.

“Chickenbutt,” says Barney, and it’s like magic. Their old arguments fall away, disagreements suddenly pointless. For all his faults, for all the shit he’s done, Clint loves his brother. He really, really does.

“Did you know?” he asks, once the usual pleasantries are exchanged—insults, really, but the idea is there. “About me?”

To his credit, Barney doesn’t play dumb. “I knew.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“Tryin’ to keep you safe, kid.” He sighs. “Half-fae are real rare. If anyone knew, you woulda been picked up for parts before you were eight. I was just tryin’ to do ya a favor.”

“Right, but—”

“I ain’t apologizing—”

“I’m not asking,” Clint says. “Can you tell me if it was Mom or Dad?”

“Mom,” Barney says, and Clint breathes a sigh of relief. He’s already having trouble coming to grips with all of this. He’s not sure how he would’ve felt his father being such a big part of him.

“So does that mean you’re—”

“Yeah, dumbass. We both are.” Barney says. “Sorry I didn’t tell you, for what it’s worth. But I think ya turned out damn good anyway.”

Clint smiles. “Thanks, I think.”

They talk for a few more minutes, and then Barney hangs up with a promise to call him. Clint knows he won’t, but it’s nice to hear anyway. Nice to talk to him in general. It’s been a long time.

“You look happy,” Barnes says, leaning against the doorframe.

“I am,” Clint says. “It was good to hear from him.” He tucks his knees up to his chest. “Has Steve talked to you yet?”

Barnes shakes his head. “He freezes up, every time. He doesn’t see me. He just sees the friend he lost.”

“I’m sorry,” Clint says. “

A shrug. “Doesn’t bother me. I think it bothers him, though.” He rubs a hand through his hair. “They’re stopping by tonight. Him and Natasha.”

Clint nods. “They have news?”

“Not that I know about. Steve said they’re dropping off some supplies, and talking with Fury about something. But I haven’t talked with him in a few days. He might have something new.”

“Okay.” Clint pats the couch cushion next to him. “Wanna come watch a movie?”

Barnes glances at the TV. “What movie?”

“ _Die Hard_.”

“I thought you said that was a Christmas movie.”

“So we’ll have Christmas in...whatever month this is.” Clint pats the cushion again. “Come on. I have it on good authority this is what people do.”

Barnes laughs. He’s been doing that a lot more now, Clint’s noticed. The more time they spend together, the more he seems to relax. The circles under his eyes are less pronounced, and his face is starting to lose that haunted, haggard look. He still jumps at sudden noises, and Clint’s caught him doing the thousand-yard stare on more than one occasion, but it really does seem like being here is good for him.

“You’re staring at me,” Barnes says, a small smile curving his mouth. “Something on my face?”

“You’re easy to look at,” Clint says, grinning back at him. “But no. I just was thinking you look happy.”

“I am happy,” Barnes says. “I mean—I think I am, anyway.” He folds his arms, shrugs. “I’m not really sure what that’s like.”

“Feels like you’re good with where you’re at.” Clint toys with the remote. “Feels like...peaceful, I guess. Like you’re okay with things being a certain way at the moment.”

Barnes looks thoughtful. “I suppose,” he says after a minute. “I like being here, with you. I like being more than a weapon.” He comes over, sitting on the couch next to Clint. That’s changed too—in the first few days, he’d sit ramrod straight, tense as hell. Now he takes up a little more room, moves a little easier in his own space. “I like breathing.”

“Breathing’s nice,” Clint agrees, deadpan, and Barnes rolls his eyes. “But I get what you mean.” He hesitates for a moment, then turns, kicking his legs over Barnes’ knees.

Barnes raises an eyebrow. “That’s a good way to get them broken.”

“Mmhmm.” But he doesn’t move, and eventually Barnes sighs, shifting himself to a more comfortable position and putting a hand on Clint’s leg.

“This what you wanted?”

“Close enough.” He starts the movie.

Barnes is quiet for a while. It’s not until John McClane’s taking off his shoes when he shifts again and says, “Close enough?”

“What?”

“You said.”

It takes Clint a moment to put it all together, distracted as he is by the movie. “Oh,” he finally says. “Um. I was just thinking about the night in the apartment—not that we have to, but if you wanted—”

He was trying to convey something like _I’d like to sit closer to you,_ but Barnes is already moving. Clint’s not entirely sure how it happens, but he suddenly finds himself on the floor, hands pinned above his head, mouth trapped in a searing kiss. He arches up into the touch, a low noise escaping him.

“Like that?” Barnes asks quietly, pulling back, and Clint grins.

“That works.” He tugs on his wrists, reveling in the way Barnes tightens his grip to keep him there. He’s _strong_ , vampire and serum enhanced, and Clint knows he’s going to have bruises there tomorrow. The idea sends a shiver down his spine. “This is perfect.”

“Good,” Barnes murmurs, scraping his teeth over Clint’s racing pulse. “You liked this, before.”

“I like it now.” Clint tilts his head to the side. “Kinda hot.”

“Really?”

“You don’t believe me?”

Barnes studies him intently. Then a slight smirk curves his mouth, hotter than it has any right to be. “I believe you,” he says, and leans down again.

Clint’s not sure what to expect in this moment. He knows what he _wants_ , but he’s also good with waiting on that. The sex was fantastic, sure, but this is nice too—unhurried, lazy kissing in the sunlight spilling across the floor.

“Can have some blood if you want,” he says. “I liked that too.”

Barnes snickers. “I noticed.”

“Shut up,” Clint says, flushing red. “I didn’t—that’s never happened before.” He still doesn’t know what that was, or why it happened. He almost wants to see it again, wants to see if he’ll react the same—hell, he _wants_ to react the same, it was fucking hot—

“It’s okay,” Barnes says, still grinning. “It was different for me, too.” He lets go of Clint’s wrist, runs a finger down the line of his throat. “I’ve never felt like that before.”

“Yeah,” Clint says. “Uh—fae can get drunk on cream. And I, uh—“ He shivers as the finger reaches the base of his throat. “I didn’t—I swear she dumped in the whole damn Bailey’s bottle anyway—”

Barnes shakes his head. “Fae blood affects vampires,” he says. “I asked one of the techs. It wasn’t the drink—” he stops, an amused expression crossing his face. “Well. Maybe a little. But fae blood makes vampires drunk. So does half-fae blood. You being drunk just made it...more.”

They look at each other for a moment, and they both start laughing. It’s the hardest Clint’s laughed in a long, long time, enough to make his abs ache and tears come to his eyes.

There’s more kissing after that, when they’ve calmed down enough to kiss. Barnes pulls Clint’s shirt off, leaves a trail of biting kisses down his chest, a little symphony of bruises against his pale skin. He drinks in the noises Clint makes with delighted eyes, trying to replicate his favorites, and it’s just about the most incredible thing that’s ever happened to him.

“What would it take,” Clint finally says, breathless and grinning and so turned on he can’t see straight, “to move this onto a bed?”

“All you had to do was ask,” Barnes murmurs, and he separates himself long enough to pull Clint to his feet, tugging him down the hallway.

The second time—in Clint’s opinion—is always better. Less fumbling, less awkwardness. This proves to be no exception, and all Clint can think about as he takes Barnes apart with his fingers and his mouth is that there will probably be a third time, too, and a fourth and a fifth. That maybe, if he wants it, there could be a lifetime.

It might be a little soon to be thinking about that kind of thing. He doesn’t know what tomorrow’s going to be like, let alone the rest of his life. But he hasn’t allowed himself to have nice things in a long, long time. He’s gonna hold onto this as long as he can.

After, they make a frozen pizza for Clint, and get some fancy blood for Barnes, and they actually do watch _Die Hard_. “You’ll love it,” Clint promises as they settle on the couch. “Greatest Christmas movie ever.”

“What makes it a Christmas movie?”

“John McClane gets a machine gun.”

They’re almost halfway through when there’s a knock on the door. Clint pauses the movie, noting the way Barnes has gone tense in his arms. They both slide off the couch, reaching for weapons—

“It’s us,” Steve’s voice calls, and Clint relaxes a little bit. Barnes stays tense until he opens the door, and Steve and Natasha come in with heavy bags and tired expressions.

“You look happy,” she says to Clint, voice low. “Everything going okay?”

“Going fine. You look tired.” He reaches down and takes her bag. She doesn’t protest, which means she must be absolutely dead on her feet. “What happened?”

“Bullshit happened,” she sighs, and goes to sit at the table. Clint assesses their general status, then starts making drinks. “We’re getting close, though.”

“Close to what?”

“Shutting this whole charade down.” She takes the mug Clint pushes over to her. “As far as the world knows, you’re missing, but otherwise things are functioning as normal. As far as SHIELD knows, it’s the same big happy family it’s always been. As far as the specific STRIKE teams go—” she scowls, shaking her head. “We’re playing the game there too.”

“It’s politics and maneuvering,” Steve says. “So, probably good that you’re not there.”

Clint makes an offended sound. “I can politic just fine, thank you.”

“You can,” Natasha agrees. “But I’m better.”

Clint starts to answer, but Steve cuts him off. “But anyway,” he says, “we think we have a lead.”

“A lead on what?”

“The Winter Soldier program. Hydra’s bid to make a super soldier.” His jaw tightens. “How they’re trying to replicate Erskine’s formula.”

“They did,” Clint says. “They gave it to me. I think.”

“They did,” Barnes agrees. “They have a dosage program, though. You weren’t there long enough to get anything substantial. Your body might be a little bit more efficient, but there shouldn’t be any long-term side effects.”

_Shouldn’t be_ is vaguely alarming, but Clint sets that aside for the moment. “Alright.” He focuses on Steve again. “You have a lead?”

“Something like that,” Natasha says. “We’ve been tracking Rumlow and Rollins and other suspected STRIKE members. They’ve all made visits to an abandoned warehouse in D.C.”

Barnes nods. “They like warehouses,” he says. “Lots of room to spread out.”

“We’ve been tracking Alexander Pierce too.” Nat shifts in her seat. “He’s made two stops there as well. So we’re pretty certain this is it. We can’t get any more intel, though. Not without arousing suspicion.”

“We’re going in blind,” Steve says. “Which means we need more people.” He reaches down and picks up the bag he brought in, setting it on the table. “If you’re up for it, I think it’s time for Hawkeye to make his reappearance.”

Clint tugs the bag closer and opens it. “Fuck yeah,” he breathes, and pulls out a bow. It’s his favorite one, his best recurve, and he lovingly runs a hand over it before setting it on the table. “That’s the plan, then?”

“Part of it.” Steve looks over to Barnes. “We could also use you, if you’re willing to come.”

Barnes’ face is utterly blank, only the tight way he’s gripping Clint’s hand under the table betraying the fact that he’s having any emotions at all. “I see,” is all he says.

“You don’t have to,” Steve quickly adds. “You’re not obligated. But it would...help. You know Hydra better than anyone at this table.”

Barnes glances over at Clint, who shrugs. “Don’t look at me. It’s your choice.”

“You don’t have to decide right now,” Natasha says. “We’re staying the night here. We both need rest.”

Steve rubs his eyes. “Definitely need rest,” he mutters. “How many rooms are here?”

“Three,” Clint says. “But you can have mine. I’ll crash on the couch.”

“He can sleep with me,” Barnes says firmly, like that’s the end of the matter, and a warm feeling curls through Clint’s chest. “I don’t mind. That’s fine.”

“I already did that,” Clint says, grinning at him. “Twice, now.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Stop it. I don’t want details.”

“I don’t kiss and tell,” Clint says airily. “Although if you were curious—”

“Stop it before I hurt you,” she says, all sugar-sweet, and Clint snickers, but keeps the rest to himself.

Steve is looking at Barnes, a curious expression in his eyes. Barnes looks right back at him, and for a moment, Clint can see the friendship that they used to have. There’s a silent question being asked, and a silent answer being given, and it almost makes his heart ache to see the easy way they communicate in this moment.

“So that’s settled,” Steve says, breaking it. “Unless anyone has burning questions, we can talk more tomorrow. I need to sleep.” He gets up and walks around the table. As he walks past Barnes, he hesitates, then puts a hand on his shoulder.

Barnes looks up at him, a fond look in his eye. “Night, punk,” he says, and for a heartbeat, Steve’s exhausted look is traded for a shy, quiet smile.

“Night,” is all he says, and then he’s vanishing down the hallway into one of the bedrooms.

Nat looks between the two of them. “I need to sleep too,” she says. “We all should. It’s going to be a long couple of days.” She gets up, trailing a gentle hand across Clint’s shoulders. “ _I’m glad you’re happy_ ,” she murmurs to him in Russian, and he covers her hand with his for a brief moment before she too disappears down the hallway.

Then it’s just the two of them left at the table, with nothing but a bow, a couple coffee mugs and a choice sitting between them.

Barnes is the first one to speak. “You going with?”

“Yeah,” Clint says.

“Because you have to, or because you want to?”

“They’re hurting people,” Clint says. “And I can do something about it.” He leans forward. “And you?”

Barnes holds his gaze for a moment, steady and certain. Then he nods. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Like you said.” He leans back in his chair. “They’re hurting people. I can do something about it.” After a moment, he adds, “I’d call it revenge, but I don’t think I want that. I just...” He trails off, looking pensive.

“We can stop other people from going through what we did,” Clint says. “We can help.”

“Yes.”

Clint grins. “Good,” he says. “I’m glad you’re coming.”

“We made a good team,” Barnes says. “I like working with you.” His eyes slide over Clint’s arms, and he smiles. “Like watching you shoot that bow, too.”

“I’m amazing, I know.” Clint winks and stretches, trying not to laugh as Barnes’ gaze follows his arms moving overhead. “You see something else you like?”

“Maybe,” Barnes says, the smile turning more...not _menacing_ , but intimidating, maybe. Clint can just see the hint of sharper teeth, glistening faintly in the light, and he makes a low noise in his throat. “Sounds like you do too.”

“You’re very attractive,” Clint says. “And I’m only human. Kind of.”

Barnes snorts. “Come on,” he says, standing up. “You should sleep too. You have a tendency to get into trouble. I need you well-rested just in case.”

“I’d protest that,” Clint says, “but you’re right. That’s how I ended up here.”

“Yeah.” Barnes smirks a little. “You warned me. I should’ve listened.”

“What?”

“In the motel, that first night. I said I’d hoped you’d be less trouble, and you said you were the definition of it.”

Clint laughs. “That’s right,” he says. “I forgot about it.” He grins. “It never gets any better, by the way. I was trouble long before I met you, and I’m gonna be trouble way into the future.”

“That’s alright,” Barnes says. “You’re worth it.”

The words curl through him, leaving a sense of warmth in their wake. _I’m not worth the trouble,_ is practically his mantra, has been since the day he was old enough to talk. But the _way_ Barnes says it, the sincerity in his voice, his face, his steady touch, suddenly makes Clint think that maybe—just maybe—he really is worth it after all.

“So are you,” he says softly, and sees that same warmth in Barnes’ eyes, the same thought in his head. “Worth every damn second of it.”

“Good,” Barnes murmurs, and kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that! Thank you all for reading, for your comments and kudos, for every measure of support and happy thought along the way. 
> 
> But most importantly, thank you to flawedamythest for bidding on me in the first place, and prompting this story. I was _unbelievably_ excited and honored to write something for you, and I really hope this was everything you were looking for. <3 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://clintscoffeepot.tumblr.com/). Thank you!


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